THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IMAGE 


Mam'     Linda 


a  novel 


By 

Will     N.    Harben 

Author  of 

"Ann  Boyd"  "Pole  Baker" 
"  Abner  Daniel "  etc. 


Illustrated    by 
F .    B .    Masters 


New  York  and  London 

Harper   &  Brothers  Publishers 
i  907 


BOOKS  BY 

WILL    N.  HARBEN 


WESTERFELT 
ABNER  DANIEL 
THE  SUBSTITUTE 
THE  GEORGIANS 
POLE  BAKER 
ANN  BO  YD 
MAM'  LINDA 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1907,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  September,  1907. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  FATHER 


PS 


Illustrations 


"SHE  STOOD  LOOKING  AT  HER  IMAGE  IN  THE  MIR- 
cc  ,, 

CO  ROR  Frontispiece 

"'WHY,  IT'S  THIS  HERE  DEVILMENT  THAT'S  BREWIN' 

BETWIXT    DAN    AN'    CARSON    DWIGHT1"      ....    Facing  p.    14 
^!      "'l    KNOW    YOUNG    WHITE    MEN,    THOO    EN    THOO,    EN 
|Q  I    NEVER    YIT    SEEN    ER    BETTER    ONE*"    ....  48 

g  "'MY  GOD,  HE'S  SHOT!'  GARNER  CALLED  OUT"    .     .  162 

"'WE'VE    GOME    AFTER    THAT    NIGGER,'    SAID    BAKER"          "          2IO 
"'YOU    ARE    TWO    MEN     THAT     I    WANT    TO    TALK    TO '  "  258 

p   "'HALT  THAR!'  DAN  WILLIS  SUDDENLY  CALLED  OUT"  316 

^    "'HELEN,     I'M     AFRAID     SOMETHING     VERY,     VERY 

SERIOUS  IS  HANGING  OVER  HIM*" "       342 

_> 
Ul 


452G 


Mam5    Linda 


Mam'    Linda 


[N  the  rear  of  the  long  store,  at  a  round 
table  under  a  hanging-lamp  with  a  tin 
shade,  four  young  men  sat  playing 
y  poker.  The  floor  of  that  portion  of 
the  room  was  raised  several  feet  higher 
than  that  of  the  front,  and  between  the  two  short 
flights  of  steps  was  the  inclining  door  leading  to  the 
cellar,  which  was  damp  and  dark  and  used  only  for 
the  storage  of  salt,  syrup,  sugar,  hardware,  and 
general  rubbish. 

Near  the  front  door  the  store-keeper,  James  Black- 
burn, a  portly,  bearded  man  of  forty-five,  sat  chat- 
ting with  Carson  Dwight,  a  young  lawyer  of  the 
town. 

"I  don't  want  any  of  you  boys  to  think  that  I'm 
complaining,"  the  elder  man  was  saying.  "I've 
been  young  myself;  in  fact,  as  you  know,  I  go  the 
gaits  too,  considering  that  I'm  tied  down  by  a  family 
and  have  a  living  to  make.  I  love  to  have  the  gang 
around — I  swear  I  do,  though  sometimes  I  declare 
it  looks  like  this  old  shebang  is  more  of  a  place  of 
amusement  than  a  business  house  in  good  standing." 


Mam'    Linda 

"Oh,  I  know  we  hang  around  here  too  much," 
Carson  D wight  replied;  "and  you  ought  to  kick  us 
out,  the  last  one  of  us." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  so  bad  at  night  like  this,  when  trade's 
over,  but  it  is  sort  o'  embarrassing  during  the  day. 
Why,  what  do  you  think  ?  A  Bradstreet  commercial 
reporter  was  in  the  other  day  to  get  a  statement  of 
my  standing,  and  while  he  was  here  Keith  Gordon — 
look  at  him  now,  the  scamp !  holding  his  cards  over 
his  head ;  that's  a  bluff.  I'll  bet  he  hasn't  got  a  ten- 
spot.  While  that  agent  was  here  Keith  and  a  lot 
more  of  your  gang  were  back  there  on  the  platform 
dancing  a  hoe-down.  The  dust  was  so  thick  you 
couldn't  see  the  windows.  The  reporter  looked  sur- 
prised, but  he  didn't  say  anything.  I  told  him  I 
thought  I'd  be  able  to  pay  for  all  l  bought  in  market, 
and  that  I  had  no  idea  how  much  I  was  worth.  I 
haven't  invoiced  my  stock  in  ten  years.  When  I 
run  low  I  manage  to  replenish  somehow,  and  so  it 
goes  on  from  year  to  year." 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  talk  to  the  boys,"  Dwight 
said.  "They  are  taking  advantage  of  your  good- 
nature. The  whole  truth  is  they  consider  you  one 
of  them,  Jim.  Marrying  didn't  change  you.  You 
are  as  full  of  devilment  as  any  of  the  rest,  and  they 
know  it,  and  love  to  hang  around  you." 

"Well,  I  reckon  that's  a  fact,"  Blackburn  an- 
swered, "and  I  believe  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  men- 
tion it.  I  think  a  sight  of  the  gang,  and  I  wouldn't 
hurt  their  feelings  for  the  world.  After  all,  what 
does  it  matter?  Life  is  short,  and  if  Trundle  & 
Hodgson  are  getting  more  mountain  custom  than  I 
am,  I'll  bet  I  get  the  biggest  slice  of  life.  They'll  die 


Mam'    Linda 

rich,  but,  like  as  not,  friendless.  By-the-way,  I  see 
your  partner  coming  across  the  street.  I  forgot  to 
tell  you ;  he  was  looking  for  you  a  few  minutes  ago. 
You  had  a  streak  of  luck  when  you  joined  issues  with 
him ;  Bill  Garner's  a  rough  sort  o'  chap,  but  he  is  by 
all  odds  the  brainiest  lawyer  in  Georgia  to-day." 

At  this  juncture  a  man  of  medium  stature,  with 
a  massive  head  crowned  by  a  shock  of  reddish  hair, 
a  smooth-shaven,  freckled  face,  and  small  feet  and 
hands  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  wore  a  long  black 
broadcloth  coat,  a  waistcoat  of  the  same  material, 
and  baggy  gray  trousers.  The  exposed  portion  of 
his  shirt-front  and  the  lapels  of  his  coat  were  stained 
by  tobacco  juice. 

"  I've  been  up  to  the  den,  over  to  the  Club,  and  the 
Lord  only  knows  where  else  looking  for  you,"  he 
said  to  his  partner,  as  he  advanced,  leaned  against  a 
showcase  on  the  counter,  and  stretched  out  his  arms 
behind  him. 

"Work  for  us,  eh?"  Carson  smiled. 

"  No ;  since  when  have  you  ever  done  a  lick  after 
dark?"  was  the  dry  reply.  "I've  come  to  give  you 
a  piece  of  advice,  and  I'm  glad  Blackburn  is  here  to 
join  me.  The  truth  is,  Dan  Willis  is  in  town.  He 
is  full  and  loaded  for  bear.  He's  down  at  the 
wagon-yard  with  a  gang  of  his  mountain  pals. 
Some  meddling  person — no  doubt  your  beautiful 
political  opponent  Wiggin — has  told  him  what  you 
said  about  the  part  he  took  in  the  mob  that  raidedh 
negro  town." 

"Well,  he  doesn't  deny  it,  does  he?"  Dwight 
asked,  his  eyes  flashing. 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  does  or  not,"  said 

3 


Mam*   Linda 

Garner.  "But  I  know  he's  the  most  reckless  and 
dangerous  man  in  the  county,  and  when  he  is  drunk 
he  will  halt  at  nothing.  I  thought  I'd  advise  you 
to  avoid  him." 

"Avoid  him?  You  mean  to  say  " — Dwight  stood 
up  in  his  anger  —  "  that  I,  a  free-born  American 
citizen,  must  sneak  around  in  my  own  home  to  avoid 
a  man  that  puts  on  a  white  mask  and  sheet  and 
with  fifty  others  like  himself  steals  into  town  and 
nearly  thrashes  the  life  out  of  a  lot  of  banjo-pick- 
ing negroes?  Most  of  them  were  good-for-nothing, 
lazy  scamps,  but  they  were  born  that  way,  and  there 
was  one  in  the  bunch  that  I  know  was  harmless. 
Oh  yes,  I  got  mad  about  it,  and  I  talked  plainly,  I 
know,  but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"You  could  have  helped  it,"  Garner  said,  testily; 
"  and  you  ought  to  have  protected  your  own  interests 
better  than  to  give  Wiggin  such  a  strong  pull  over  you. 
If  you  are  elected  it  will  be  by  the  aid  of  that  very 
mob  and  their  kin  and  friends.  We  may  be  able  to 
smooth  it  all  over,  but  if  you  have  an  open  row  with 
Dan  Willis  to-night,  the  cause  of  it  will  spread  like 
wildfire,  and  burn  votes  for  you  in  wads  and  bunches. 
Good  God,  man,  the  idea  of  giving  Wiggin  a  torch 
like  that  to  wave  in  the  face  of  your  constituency — 
you,  a  town  man,  standing  up  for  the  black  criminal 
brutes  that  are  plotting  to  pull  down  the  white  race ! 
I  say  that's  the  way  Wiggin  and  Dan  Willis  would 
interpret  your  platform." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  Dwight  repeated,  more  calmly, 
though  his  voice  shook  with  suppressed  feeling  as  he 
went  on.  "  If  I  lose  all  I  hope  for  politically — and 
this  seems  like  the  best  chance  I'll  ever  have  to  get 

4 


Mam'    Linda 

to  the  legislature  —  I'll  stand  by  my  convictions. 
We  must  have  law  and  order  among  ourselves  if  we 
expect  to  teach  such  things  to  poor,  half-witted  black 
people.  I  was  mad  that  night.  You  know  that  I 
love  the  South.  Its  blood  is  my  blood.  Three  of  my 
mother's  brothers  and  two  of  my  father's  died  fight- 
ing for  the  'Lost  Cause,'  and  my  father  was  under 
fire  from  the  beginning  of  the  war  to  the  end.  In 
fact,  it  is  my  love  for  the  South,  and  all  that  is  good 
and  pure  and  noble  in  it,  that  made  my  blood  boil 
that  night.  I  saw  a  part  of  it  you  didn't  see." 

"What  was  that?"  Garner  asked. 

"It  was  a  clear  moonlight  night,"  Dwight  went 
on.  "I  was  sitting  at  the  window  of  my  room  at 
home,  looking  out  over  Major  Warren's  yard,  when 
the  first  screams  and  shouts  came  from  the  negro 
quarter.  I  suspected  what  it  was,  for  I'd  heard  of 
the  threats  the  mountaineers  had  made  against  that 
part  of  town,  but  I  wasn't  prepared  for  what  I 
actually  saw.  The  cottage  of  old  Uncle  Lewis  and 
Mammy  Linda  is  just  behind  the  Major's  house,  you 
know,  and  in  plain  view  of  my  window.  I  saw  the 
old  pair  come  to  the  door  and  run  out  into  the  yard, 
and  then  I  heard  Linda's  voice.  'It's  my  child!' 
she  screamed.  '  They  are  killing  him !'  Uncle  Lewis 
tried  to  quiet  her,  but  she  stood  there  wringing  her 
hands  and  sobbing  and  praying.  The  Major  raised 
the  window  of  his  room  and  looked  out,  and  I  heard 
him  ask  what  was  wrong.  Uncle  Lewis  tried  to  ex- 
plain, but  his  voice  could  not  be  heard  above  his 
wife's  cries.  A  few  minutes  later  Pete  came  running 
down  the  street.  They  had  let  him  go.  His  clothes 
were  torn  to  strips  and  his  back  was  livid  with  great 

5 


Mam'    Linda 

whelks.  He  had  no  sooner  reached  the  old  folks  than 
he  keeled  over  in  a  faint.  The  Major  came  down, 
and  he  and  I  bent  over  the  boy  and  finally  restored 
him  to  consciousness.  Major  Warren  was  the  mad- 
dest man  I  ever  saw,  and  a  mob  a  hundred  strong 
couldn't  have  touched  the  negro  and  left  him  alive." 

"I  know,  that  was  all  bad  enough,"  Garner  ad- 
mitted, "but  antagonizing  those  men  now  won't 
better  the  matter  and  may  do  you  more  political 
damage  than  you'll  get  over  in  a  lifetime.  You 
can't  be  a  politician  and  a  preacher  both;  they  don't 
go  together.  You  can't  dispute  that  the  negro 
quarter  of  this  town  was  a  disgrace  to  a  civilized 
community  before  the  White  Caps  raided  it.  Look 
at  it  now.  There  never  was  such  a  change.  It  is  as 
quiet  as  a  Philadelphia  graveyard." 

"It's  the  way  they  went  about  it  that  made  me 
mad,"  Carson  Dwight  retorted.  "Besides,  I  know 
that  boy.  He  is  as  harmless  as  a  kitten,  and  he  only 
hung  around  those  dives  because  he  loved  to  sing 
and  dance  with  the  rest.  I  did  get  mad;  I'm  mad 
yet.  My  people  never  lashed  their  slaves  when  they 
were  in  bondage;  why  should  I  stand  by  and  see 
them  beaten  now  by  men  who  never  owned  negroes 
and  never  loved  or  understood  them?  Before  the 
war  a  white  man  would  stand  up  and  protect  his 
slaves;  why  shouldn't  he  now  take  up  for  at  least 
the  most  faithful  of  their  descendants  ?" 

"That's  it,"  Blackburn  spoke  up,  admiringly. 
"  You  are  a  chip  off  of  the  old  block,  Carson.  Your 
daddy  would  have  shot  any  man  who  tried  to  whip 
one  of  his  negroes.  You  can't  help  the  way  you  feel ; 
but  I  agree  with  Bill  here,  you  can't  get  the  support 

6 


Mam'    Linda 

of  mountain  people  if  you  don't,  at  least,  pretend 
to  see  things  their  way." 

"Well,  I  can't  see  this  thing  their  way,"  fumed 
Dwight;  "and  I'm  not  going  to  try.  When  I  saw 
that  old  black  man  and  woman  that  awful  night 
with  their  very  heart-strings  torn  and  bleeding, 
and  remembered  that  they  had  been  kind  to  my 
mother  when  she  was  at  the  point  of  death — sitting 
by  her  bedside  all  night  long  as  patiently  as  blocks 
of  stone,  and  shedding  tears  of  joy  at  the  break  of 
day  when  the  doctor  said  the  crisis  had  passed— 
when  I  think  of  that  and  admit  that  I  stand  by  with 
folded  hands  and  see  their  only  child  beaten  till  he 
is  insensible,  my  blood  boils  with  utter  shame.  It 
has  burned  a  great  lesson  into  my  brain,  and  that  is 
that  we  have  got  to  have  law  and  order  among  our- 
selves if  we  expect  to  keep  the  good  opinion  of  the 
world  at  large." 

"  I  understand  Pete  would  have  got  off  much 
easier  if  he  hadn't  fought  them  like  a  tiger,"  said 
Blackburn.  "They  say—" 

"And  why  shouldn't  he  have  fought?"  Carson 
asked,  quickly.  "The  nearer  the  brute  creation  a 
man  is  the  more  he'll  fight.  A  tame  dog  will  fight 
if  you  drive  him  into  a  corner  and  strike  him  hard 
enough." 

"Well,  you  busted  up  our  game,"  joined  in  Keith 
Gordon,  who  had  left  the  table  in  the  rear  and  now 
came  forward,  accompanied  by  another  young  man, 
Wade  Tingle,  the  editor  of  the  Headlight.  "Wade 
and  I  both  agree,  Carson,  that  you've  got  to  handle 
Dan  Willis  cautiously.  We  are  backing  you  tooth 
and  toe-nail  in  this  campaign,  but  you'll  tie  our 

7 


Mam'   Linda 

hands  if  you  antagonize  the  mountain  element. 
Wiggin  knows  that,  and  he  is  working  it  for  all  it's 
worth." 

"That's  right,  old  man,"  the  editor  joined,  in, 
earnestly.  "I  may  as  well  be  plain  with  you.  I'm 
making  a  big  issue  out  of  my  support  of  you,  but  if 
you  make  the  country  people  mad  they  will  stop 
taking  my  paper.  I  can't  live  without  their  pa- 
tronage, and  I  simply  can't  back  you  if  you  don't 
stick  to  me." 

"  I  wasn't  raising  a  row, "  the  young  candidate  said. 
"  But  Garner  came  to  me  just  now,  actually  advising 
me  to  avoid  that  dirty  scoundrel.  I  won't  dodge 
any  blustering  bully  who  is  going  about  threatening 
what  he  will  do  to  me  when  he  meets  me  face  to 
face.  I  want  your  support,  but  I  can't  buy  it  that 
way." 

"Well,"  Garner  said,  grimly,  more  to  the  others 
than  to  his  partner,  "there  will  be  a  row  right 
here  inside  of  ten  minutes.  I  see  that  now.  Willis 
has  heard  certain  things  Carson  has  said  about  the 
part  he  took  in  that  raid,  and  he  is  looking  for  trouble. 
Carson  isn't  in  the  mood  to  take  back  anything,  and 
a  fool  can  see  how  it  will  end." 


II 


[EITH  GORDON  and  Tingle  motioned 
to  Garner,  and  the  three  stepped  out 
on  the  sidewalk  leaving  Blackburn  and 
the  candidate  together.  The  street  was 
11111111111  quite  deserted.  Only  a  few  of  the 
ramshackle  street  lights  were  burning,  though  the 
night  was  cloudy,  the  location  of  the  stores,  barber- 
shop, hotel,  and  post-office  being  indicated  by  the 
oblong  patches  of  light  on  the  ground  in  front  of 
them. 

"You'll  never  be  able  to  move  him,"  Keith  Gor- 
don said,  stroking  his  blond  mustache  nervously. 
"  The  truth  is,  he's  terribly  worked  up  over  it.  Be- 
tween us  three,  boys,  Carson  never  loved  but  one 
woman  in  his  life,  and  she's  Helen  Warren.  Mam' 
Linda  is  her  old  nurse,  and  Carson  knows  when  she 
comes  home  and  hears  of  Pete's  trouble  it  is  going  to 
hurt  her  awfully.  Helen  has  a  good,  kind  heart,  and 
she  loves  Linda  as  if  they  were  the  same  flesh  and 
blood.  If  Carson  meets  Willis  to-night  he'll  kill  him 
or  get  killed.  Say,  boys,  he's  too  fine  a  fellow  for  that 
sort  of  thing  right  on  the  eve  of  his  election.  What 
the  devil  can  we  do  ?" 

"Oh,  I  see;  there's  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  it," 
Garner  said,  cynically.  "I'm  not  surprised  at  the 
way  he's  acting  now,  but  I  thought  that  case  was  over 

9 


Mam'    Linda 

with.  Why,  I  heard  she  was  engaged  to  a  man  down 
where  she's  visiting." 

"  She  really  may  be,"  Gordon  admitted,  but  Carson 
is  ready  to  fight  her  battles,  anyway.  I  honestly 
think  she  turned  him  down  when  he  was  rolling  so 
high  with  her  brother,  just  before  his  death  a  year 
ago,  but  that  didn't  alter  his  feelings  towards  her." 

Garner  grunted  as  he  thrust  his  hand  deep  into  his 
breast-pocket  for  his  plug  of  tobacco  and  began  to 
twist  off  a  corner  of  it.  "  The  most  maddening  thing 
on  earth,"  he  said,  "is  to  have  a  close  friend  who  is  a 
darned  fool.  I'm  tired  of  the  whole  business.  Old 
Dwight  is  out  of  all  patience  with  Carson  for  the  reck- 
less way  he  has  been  living,  but  the  old  man  is  really 
carried  away  with  pride  over  the  boy's  political 
chances.  He  had  that  sort  of  ambition  himself  in 
his  early  life,  and  he  likes  to  see  his  son  go  in  for  it. 
He  was  powerfully  tickled  the  other  day  when  I 
told  him  Carson  was  going  in  on  the  biggest  wave 
of  popularity  that  ever  bore  a  human  chip,  but  he 
will  cuss  a  blue  streak  when  the  returns  come  in,  for 
I  tell  you,  boys,  if  Carson  has  a  row  with  Dan  Willis 
to-night  over  this  negro  business,  it  will  knock  him 
higher  than  a  kite." 

"Do  you  know  whether  Carson  has  anything  to 
shoot  with?"  Tingle  asked,  thoughtfully. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  saw  the  bulge  of  it  under  his  coat  just 
now,"  Garner  answered,  still  angrily,"  and  if  the 
two  come  together  it  will  be  raining  lead  for  a  while 
in  the  old  town." 

"I  was  just  thinking  about  his  sick  mother," 
Keith  Gordon  remarked.  "My  sister  told  me  the 
other  day  that  Mrs.  Dwight  was  in  such  a  low  con- 

10 


Mam'   Linda 

dition  that  any  sudden  shock  would  be  apt  to  kill 
her.  A  thing  like  this  would  upset  her  terribly — 
that  is,  if  there  is  really  any  shooting.  Don't  you 
suppose  if  we  were  to  remind  Carson  of  her  condi- 
tion that  he  might  agree  to  go  home?" 

"  No,  you  don't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do,"  Garner 
said,  firmly.  "It  would  only  make  him  madder. 
The  more  reasons  we  give  him  for  avoiding  Willis 
the  more  stubborn  he'll  be.  I  guess  we'll  have  to 
let  him  sit  there  and  make  a  target  of  himself." 

Just  then  a  tall  mountaineer,  under  a  broad- 
brimmed  soft  hat,  wearing  a  cotton  checked  shirt 
and  jean  trousers  passed  through  the  light  of  the 
entrance  to  the  hotel  near  by  and  slouched  through 
the  intervening  darkness  towards  them. 

"It's  Pole  Baker,"  said  Keith.  "He's  a  rough- 
and-ready  supporter  of  Carson's.  Say,  hold  on, 
Pole!" 

"Hold  on  yourself;  what's  up?"  the  mountaineer 
asked,  with  a  laugh.  "Plottin'  agin  the  whites?" 

"We  want  to  ask  you  if  you've  seen  Dan  Willis 
to-night,"  Garner  questioned. 

"  Have  I  ?"  Baker  grunted.  "  That's  exactly  why 
I'm  lookin'  fer  you  town  dudes  instead  o'  goin'  on 
out  home  where  I  belong.  I'm  as  sober  as  an  empty 
keg,  but  I  git  charged  with  bein'  in  the  Darley 
calaboose  every  time  I  don't  answer  the  old  lady's 
roll-call  at  bed-time.  You  bet  Willis  is  loaded  fer 
bear,  and  he's  got  some  bad  men  with  him  down  at 
the  wagon-yard.  Wiggin  has  filled  'em  up  with  a 
lot  o'  stuff  about  what  Carson  said  concernin'  the 
White  Cap  raid  t'other  night.  I  thought  I'd  sorter 
put  you  fellers  on,  so  you  could  keep  our  man  out 

ii 


Mam'   Linda 

o*  the  way  till  their  liquor  wears  off.     Besides,  I'm 

here  to  tell  you,   Bill  Garner,  that's  a  nasty  card 

Wiggin's  set  afloat  in  the  mountains.     He  says  a 

regular  gang  of  blue-bloods  has  been  organized  here 

I  to  take  up  f er  town  coons  agin  the  pore  whites  in  the 

I  country.     We  might  crush  such  a  report  in  time,  you 

know,  but  we'll  never  kill  it  if  thar's  a  fight  over 

it  to-night." 

"That's  the  trouble,"  the  others  said,  in  a  breath. 

"Wait  one  minute — you  stay  right  here,"  Baker 
said,  and  he  went  and  stood  in  front  of  the  store  door 
and  looked  in  for  a  moment;  then  he  came  back. 
"I  thought  maybe  he'd  let  us  all  talk  sense  to  'im, 
but  you  can't  put  reason  into  a  man  like  that  any 
easier  than  you  can  dip  up  melted  butter  with  a  hot 
awl.  I  can't  see  any  chance  unless  you  fellers  will 
leave  it  entirely  to  me." 

"Leave  it  to  you?"  Garner  exclaimed.  "What 
could  you  do?" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  do  a  blessed  thing 
or  not,  boys,  but  the  darn  thing  is  so  desperate  that 
I'm  willin'  to  try.  You  see,  I  never  talk  my  politics 
—if  I  do,  I  talk  it  on  t'other  side  to  see  what  I  kin 
pick  up  to  advantage.  The  truth  is,  I  think  them 
skunks  consider  me  a  Wiggin  man,  and  I'd  like  to  git 
a  whack  at  'em.  Maybe  I  can  git  'em  to  leave  town. 
Abe  Johnson  is  the  leader  of  'em,  and  he  never  gets 
too  drunk  to  have  some  natural  caution." 

"Well,  it  certainly  couldn't  do  any  harm  for  you 
to  try,  Pole,"  said  Tingle. 

"Well,  I'll  go  down  to  the  wagon-yard  and  see  if 
they  are  still  hanging  about. 

As  he  approached  the  place  in  question,  which  was 

12 


Mam'    Linda 

an  open  space  about  one  hundred  yards  square  sur- 
rounded by  a  high  fence,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  main 
street,  Pole  stood  in  the  broad  gateway  and  sur- 
veyed the  numerous  camp-fires  which  gleamed  out 
from  the  darkness.  He  finally  descried  a  group  of 
men  around  a  fire  between  two  white-hooded  wagons 
to  the  wheels  of  which  were  haltered  several  horses. 
As  Pole  advanced  towards  them,  paying  cheerful 
greetings  to  various  men  and  women  around  the 
different  fires  he  had  to  pass,  he  recognized  Dan 
Willis,  Abe  Johnson,  and  several  others. 

A  quart  whiskey  flask,  nearly  empty,  stood  on  the 
ground  in  the  light  of  the  fire  round  which  the  men 
were  seated.  As  he  approached  they  all  looked  up 
and  nodded  and  muttered  careless  greetings.  It 
seemed  to  suggest  a  movement  on  the  part  of  Dan 
Willis,  a  tall  man  of  thirty-five  or  thirty-six  years  of 
age,  who  wore  long,  matted  hair  and  had  bushy  eye- 
brows and  a  sweeping  mustache,  for,  taking  up  the 
flask,  he  rose  and  dropped  it  into  his  coat-pocket  and 
spoke  to  the  two  men  who  sat  on  either  side  of  Abe 
Johnson. 

"Come  on,"  he  growled,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
I  don't  care  whether  you  join  us  or  not,  Abe." 

"Well,  I'm  out  of  it,"  replied  Johnson.  "I've 
talked  to  you  fellows  till  I'm  sick.  You  are  too 
darned  full  to  have  any  sense." 

Willis  and  the  two  men  walked  off  together  and 
stood  behind  one  of  the  wagons.  Their  voices, 
muffled  by  the  effects  of  whiskey,  came  back  to  the 
ears  of  the  remaining  two. 

"Goin'  out  home  to-night,  Abe?"  Baker  asked, 
carelessly. 

13 


Mam'    Linda 

"  I  want  to,  but  I  don't  like  to  leave  that  damned 
fool  here  in  the  condition  he's  in.  He'll  either  com- 
mit murder  or  git  his  blasted  head  shot  off." 

"That's  exactly  what  /  was  thinking  about,"  said 
Pole,  sitting  down  on  the  ground  carelessly  and  draw- 
ing his  knees  up  in  the  embrace  of  his  strong  arms. 
"Look  here,  Abe,  me'n  you  hain't  to  say  quite  as 
intimate  as  own  brothers  born  of  the  same  mammy, 
but  I  hain't  got  nothin'  agin  you  of  a  personal 
nature." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  that's  all  right,"  the  other  said, 
stroking  his  round,  smooth  -  shaven  face  with  a 
dogged  sweep  of  his  brawny  hand.  "That's  all 
right,  Pole." 

"  Well,  my  family  knowed  yore  family  long  through 
the  war,"  Abe.  "My  daddy  was  with  yourn  at  the 
front,  an'  our  mothers  swapped  sugar  an'  coffee  in 
them  hard  times,  an',  Abe,  I'm  here  to  tell  you  I  sort- 
er hate  to  see  an  unsuspectin'  neighbor  like  you  walk 
blind  into  serious  trouble,  great  big  trouble,  Abe — 
trouble  of  the  sort  that  would  make  a  man's  wife  an' 
childern  lie  awake  many  and  many  a  night." 

"What  the  hell  you  mean?"  Johnson  asked,  pick- 
ing up  his  ears. 

"Why,  it's  this  here  devilment  that's  brewin'  be- 
twixt Dan  an'  Carson  D wight." 

"Well,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  me?"  Johnson 
asked,  in  surly  surprise. 

"Well,  it's  jest  this,  Abe,"  Pole  leaned  back  till 

his  feet  rose  from  the  ground,  and  he  twisted  his  neck 

as  his  eyes  followed  the  three  men  who,  with  their 

heads  close  together,  had  moved  a  little  farther  away. 

1  Maybe  you  don't  know  it,  Abe,  but  I  used  to  be  in 


:WHY,    IT'S     THIS     HERE     DEVILMENT     THAT'S     BREWIN1'    BETWIXT 
DAN    AN*    CARSON    DWIGHT*" 


Mam'    Linda 

the  government  revenue  service,  and  in  one  way 
and  another  that's  neither  here  nor  there  I  some- 
times drop  onto  underground  information,  an'  I 
want  to  give  you  a  valuable  tip.  I  want  to  start  you 
to  thinkin'.  You'll  admit,  I  reckon,  that  if  them 
two  men  meet  to-night  thar  will  be  apt  to  be  blood 
shed." 

Johnson  stared  over  the  camp-fire  sullenly.  ''If 
Carson  Dwight  hain't  had  the  sense  to  git  out  o' 
town  thar  will  be,  an'  plenty  of  it,"  he  said,  with  a 
dry  chuckle. 

"Well,  thar's  the  difficulty,"  said  Pole.  "He 
hain't  left  town,  an'  what's  wuss  than  that,  his  friends 
hain't  been  able  to  budge  'im  from  his  seat  in  Black- 
burn's store,  whar  Dan  couldn't  miss  'im  ef  he  was 
stalkin'  about  blindfolded.  He's  heard  threats,  and 
he's  as  mad  a  man  as  ever  pulled  hair." 

"Well,  what  the  devil—" 

"  Hold  on,  Abe.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  whar  you  come 
in.  My  underground  information  is  that  the  Grand 
Jury  is  hard  at  work  to  git  the  facts  about  that 
White  Cap  raid.  The  whole  thing — name  of  leader 
and  members  of  the  gang  has  been  kept  close  so  far, 
but—" 

"Well" — the  half -defiant  look  in  the  face  of  John- 
son gave  way  to  one  of  growing  alarm — "well!"  he 
repeated,  but  went  no  further. 

"It's  this  way,  Abe — an'  I'm  here  as  a  friend,  I 
reckon.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  if  thar  is 
blood  shed  to-night  it  will  git  into  court,  and  a  lots 
about  the  White  Cap  raid,  and  matters  even  further 
back,  will  be  pulled  into  the  light." 

Pole's  words  had  made  a  marked  impression  on 


Mam'    Linda 

the  man  to  whom  they  had  been  so  adroitly  direct- 
ed. Johnson  leaned  forward  nervously.  "So  you 
think — "  But  he  hung  fire  again. 

"Huh,  I  think  you'd  better  git  Dan  Willis  out  o' 
this  town,  Abe,  an'  inside  o'  five  minutes,  ef  you 
can  do  it." 

Johnson  drew  a  breath  of  evident  relief.  "  I  can 
do  it,  Pole,  and  I'll  act  by  your  advice,"  he  said. 
"Thar's  only  one  thing  on  earth  that  would  turn 
Dan  towards  home,  but  I  happen  to  know  what  that 
is.  He's  b'ilin'  hot,  but  he  ain't  any  more  anxious 
to  stir  up  the  Grand  Jury  than  some  of  the  rest  of 
us.  I  '11  go  talk  to  'im." 

As  Johnson  moved  away,  Pole  Baker  rose  and 
slouched  off  in  the  darkness  in  the  direction  of  the 
straggling  lights  along  the  main  street.  At  the  gate 
he  paused  and  waited,  his  eyes  on  the  wagons  and 
camp-fire  he  had  just  left.  Presently  he  noticed 
something  and  chuckled.  The  horses,  with  clanking 
trace-chains,  passed  between  him  and  the  fire — they 
were  being  led  round  to  be  hitched  to  the  wagons. 
Pole  chuckled  again.  "I'm  not  sech  a  dern  fool  as  I 
look,"  he  said,  "Well,  I  had  to  lie  some  and  act  a 
part  that  sorter  went  agin  the  grain,  but  my  scheme 
worked.  If  I  ever  git  to  hell  I  reckon  it  will  be 
through  tryin'  to  do  right— in  the  main." 


Ill 


'HE  wide  avenue  which  ran  north  and 
south  and  cut  the  town  ot  Darley  into 
halves  held  the  best  and  oldest  resi- 
dences. One  side  of  the  street  caught 
the  full  rays  of  the  morning  sun  and  the 
other  the  slanting  red  beams  of  the  afternoon.  For 
so  small  a  town,  it  was  a  well-graded  and  well-kept 
thoroughfare.  Strips  of  grass  lay  like  ribbons  be- 
tween the  sidewalks  and  the  roadway,  and  at  the 
triangular  spaces  created  by  the  intersection  of  cer- 
tain streets  there  were  rusty  iron  fences  built  pri- 
marily to  protect  diminutive  fountains  which  had 
long  since  ceased  to  play.  In  one  of  these  little 
parks,  in  the  heart  of  the  town,  as  it  was  in  the  hearts 
of  the  inhabitants,  stood  a  monument  erected  to 
"The  Confederate  Dead,"  a  well-modelled,  life-size 
figure  of  a  Southern  private  wrought  in  stone  in  far- 
away Italy.  Had  it  been  correctly  placed  on  its 
pedestal  ?  —  that  was  the  question  anxiously  asked  by 
reverent  passers-by,  for  the  cloaked  and  knapsacked 
figure,  which  time  was  turning  gray,  stood  with  its 
back  to  the  enemy's  country. 

"Yes,  it  is  right,"  some  would  say,  "for  the  soldier 
is  represented  as  being  on  night  picket-duty  in  North- 
ern territory,  and  his  thoughts  and  eyes  are  with  his 
dear  ones  at  home  and  the  country  he  is  defending." 


Mam'    Linda 

Henry  Dwight,  the  wealthy  sire  of  the  aggressive 
young  man  with  whom  the  foregoing  chapters  have 
principally  dealt,  lived  in  one  of  the  moss  and  ivy 
grown  houses  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  avenue.  It 
was  a  red  brick  structure  two  and  a  half  stories  high, 
with  a  colonial  veranda,  and  had  a  square,  white- 
windowed  cupola  as  the  apex  of  the  slanting  roof. 
There  was  a  semicircular  drive,  which  entered  the 
grounds  at  one  corner  in  the  front  and  swept  grace- 
fully past  the  door.  The  central  and  smaller  front 
gate,  for  the  use  of  pedestrians,  with  its  imitation 
stone  posts,  spanned  by  a  white  crescent,  was  reach- 
ed from  the  house  by  a  gravelled  walk  bordered  by 
boxwood.  On  the  right  and  left  were  rustic  summer- 
houses,  grape  arbors  and  parterres  containing  roses 
and  other  flowers,  all  of  which  were  well  cared  for  by 
an  old  colored  gardener. 

Henry  Dwight  was  a  grain  and  cotton  merchant, 
,  money-lender,  and  the  president  and  chief  stock- 
holder of  the  Darley  Cotton  Mills,  whose  great  brick 
buildings  and  cottages  for  employes  stood  a  mile  or 
so  to  the  west  of  the  town.  This  morning,  having 
written  his  daily  letters,  he  was  strolling  in  his 
grounds  smoking  a  cigar.  To  any  one  who  knew 
him  well  it  would  have  been  plain  that  his  mind  was 
disturbed. 

Adjoining  the  Dwight  homestead  there  was  an- 
other ancestral  house  equally  as  spacious  and  stand- 
ing in  quite  as  extensive,  if  more  neglected,  grounds. 
It  was  here  that  Major  Warren  lived,  and  it  happened 
that  he,  too,  was  on  his  lawn  just  beyond  the  ram- 
shackle intervening  fence,  the  gate  of  which  had 
fallen  from  its  hinges  and  been  taken  away. 

18 


Mam'   Linda 

The  Major  was  a  short,  slight  old  gentleman,  quite 
a  contrast  to  the  John  Bull  type  of  his  lusty,  side- 
whiskered  neighbor.  He  wore  a  dingy  brown  wig, 
and  as  he  pottered  about,  raising  a  rose  from  the 
earth  with  his  gold-headed  ebony  stick,  or  stooped 
to  uproot  an  encroaching  weed,  his  furtive  glance 
was  often  levelled  on  old  D wight. 

"I  declare  I  really  might  as  well,"  he  muttered, 
undecidedly.  "What's  the  use  making  up  your 
mind  to  a  thing  and  letting  it  go  for  no  sensible 
reason.  He's  taking  a  wrong  view  of  it.  I  can  tell 
that  by  the  way  he  puffs  at  his  cigar.  Yes,  I'll 
do  it." 

The  Major  passed  through  the  gateway  and  slowly 
drew  near  his  preoccupied  neighbor. 

"  Good  -  morning,  Henry,"  he  said,  as  Dwight 
looked  up.  "If  I'm  any  judge  of  your  twists  and 
turns,  you  are  not  yet  in  a  thoroughly  good-humor." 

"  Good-humor  ?  No,  sir,  I'm  not  in  a  good-humor. 
How  could  I  be  when  that  young  scamp,  the  only 
heir  to  my  name  and  effects — 

Dwight's  spleen  rose  and  choked  out  his  words, 
and,  red  in  the  face,  he  stood  panting,  unable  to  go 
further. 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me,  while  he's  not  my  son," 
the  Major  began,  "that  you  are — are — well,  rather 
overbearing — I  might  say  unforgiving.  He's  been 
sowing  wild  oats,  but,  really,  if  I  am  any  judge  of 
young  men,  he  is  on  a  fair  road  to — to  genuine 
manhood." 

"Road  to  nothing,"  spluttered  Dwight.  "I  gave 
him  that  big  farm  to  see  what  he  could  do  in  its 
management.  Never  expected  him  to  work  a  lick — 

19 


Mam'    Linda 

just  wanted  to  see  if  he  could  keep  it  on  a  paying 
basis,  but  it  was  an  investment  of  dead  capital. 
Then  he  took  up  the  law.  He  did  a  little  better  at 
that  along  with  Bill  Garner  to  lean  on,  but  that  never 
amounted  to  anything  worth  mentioning.  Then  he 
went  into  politics." 

"And  I  heard  you  say  yourself,  Henry,"  the  Major 
ventured,  gently,  "  that  you  believed  he  was  actually 
cut  out  for  a  future  statesman." 

"  Yes,  and  like  the  fool  that  I  was  I  hoped  for  it. 
I  was  so  glad  to  see  him  really  interested  in  politics 
that  I  laid  awake  at  night  thinking  of  his  success. 
I  heard  of  his  popularity  on  every  hand.  Men  came 
to  me,  and  women,  too,  telling  me  they  loved  him 
and  were  going  to  work  for  him  against  that  jack- 
leg  lawyer  Wiggin,  and  put  him  into  office  with  a 
majority  that  would  ring  all  over  the  State ;  and  they 
meant  it,  I  reckon.  But  what  did  he  do  ?  In  his 
stubborn,  bull-headed  way  he  abused  those  moun- 
tain men  who  took  the  law  into  their  hands  for  the 
public  good,  and  turned  hundreds  of  them  against 
him;  and  all  for  a  nigger — a  lazy,  trifling  nigger 
boy!" 

"Well,  you  see,"  Major  Warren  began,  lamely, 
"Carson  and  I  saw  Pete  the  night  he  was  whipped 
so  severely  and  we  took  pity  on  him.  They  played 
together  when  they  were  boys,  as  boys  all  over  the 
South  do,  you  know,  and  then  he  saw  Mam'  Linda 
break  down  over  it  and  saw  old  Lewis  crying  for  the 
first  time  in  the  old  man's  life.  I  was  mad,  Henry, 
myself,  and  you  would  have  been  if  you  had  been 
there.  I  could  have  fought  the  men  who  did  it,  so  I 
understand  how  Carson  felt,  and  when  he  made  the 

20 


Mam'   Linda 

remark  Wiggin  is  using  to  such  deadly  injury  to  his 
prospects  my  heart  warmed  to  the  boy.  If  he  doesn't 
succeed  as  a  politician  it  will  be  because  he  is  too 
genuine  for  a  tricky  career  of  that  sort.  His  friends 
are  trying  to  get  him  to  make  some  statement  that 
will  reinstate  him  with  the  mountain  people  who 
sympathized  with  the  White  Caps,  but  he  simply 
won't  do  it." 

"  Won't  do  it !  I  reckon  not !"  Dwight  blurted  out. 
"  Didn't  the  young  idiot  wait  in  Blackburn's  store 
for  Dan  Willis  to  come  and  shoot  the  top  of  his  head 
off  ?  He  sat  there  till  past  midnight,  and  wouldn't 
move  an  inch  till  actual  proof  was  brought  to  him 
that  Willis  had  left  town.  Oh,  I'm  no  fool!  I  know 
a  thing  or  two.  I've  watched  him  and  your  daugh- 
ter together.  That's  at  the  bottom  of  it.  She  sat 
down  on  him  before  she  went  off  to  Augusta,  but 
her  refusal  didn't  alter  him.  He  knows  Helen 
thinks  a  lot  of  her  old  negro  mammy,  and  in  her 
absence  he  simply  took  up  her  cause  and  is  fight- 
ing mad  about  it — so  mad  that  he  is  blind  to  his 
political  ruin.  That's  what  a  man  will  do  for  a 
woman.  They  say  she's  about  to  become  engaged 
down  there.  I  hope  she  is,  and  that  Carson  will 
have  pride  enough  when  he  hears  of  it  to  let  another 
man  do  her  fighting,  and  one  with  nothing  to  lose 
by  it." 

"  She  hasn't  written  me  a  thing  about  any  engage- 
ment," the  Major  answered,  with  some  animation; 
"but  my  sister  highly  approves  of  the  match  and 
writes  that  it  may  come  about.  Mr.  Sanders  is  a 
well-to-do,  honorable  man  of  good  birth  and  educa- 
tion. Helen  never  seemed  to  get  over  her  brother's 

21 


Mam'   Linda 

sad  death.  She  loved  poor  Albert  more  than  she 
ever  did  me  or  any  one  else." 

"And  I  always  thought  that  it  was  Carson's  as- 
sociation with  your  son  in  his  dissipation  that  turned 
Helen  against  him.  For  all  I  know,  she  may  have 
thought  Carson  actually  led  Albert  on  and  was 
partly  the  cause  of  his  sad  end." 

"  She  may  have  looked  at  it  that  way,"  the  Major 
said,  musingly.  They  had  now  reached  the  porch  in 
the  rear  of  the  house  and  they  went  together  into  the 
wide  hall.  A  colored  maid  with  a  red  bandanna  tied 
like  a  turban  round  her  head  was  dusting  the  walnut 
railing  of  the  stairs.  Passing  through  the 'hall,  the 
old  gentlemen  turned  into  the  library,  a  great  square 
room  with  wide  windows  and  tall,  gilt-framed  pier- 
glass  mirrors. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  that's  what  turned  her  against 
him,"  Dwight  continued,  "and  that  is  where,  be- 
tween you  and  Helen,  I  get  mixed  up.  Why  do 
you  always  take  up  for  the  scamp?  It  looks  to 
me  like  you'd  resent  the  way  he  acted  with  your 
son  after  the  boy's  terrible  end." 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  more  in  the  matter,  Henry, 
than  I  ever  told  you  about."  Major  Warren's  voice 
faltered.  "To  be  plain,  that  is  my  secret  trouble. 
I  reckon  if  Helen  was  to  discover  the  actual  truth— 
all  of  it — she  would  never  feel  the  same  towards  me. 
I  think  maybe  I  ought  to  tell  you.  It  certainly  will 
explain  why  I  am  so  much  interested  in  your  boy." 

They  sat  down,  the  owner  of  the  house  in  a  re- 
clining-chair  at  an  oblong,  carved  mahogany  table 
covered  with  books  and  papers,  the  visitor  on  a 
lounge  near  by. 

22 


Mam'   Linda 

"Well,  it  always  has  seemed  odd  to  me,"  old 
Dwight  said.  "  I  couldn't  exactly  believe  you  want- 
ed to  bring  him  and  Helen  together,  after  your  ex- 
perience with  that  sort  of  man  under  your  own 
roof." 

"  It  is  this  way,"  said  the  Major,  awkwardly.  "  To 
begin  with,  I  am  sure,  from  all  I've  picked  up,  that 
it  was  not  your  son  that  was  leading  mine  on  to 
dissipation,  but  just  the  other  way.  He's  dead  and 
gone,  but  Albert  was  always  ready  for  a  prank  of 
any  sort.  Henry,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  it 
because  it  seems  to  me  you  are  in  the  same  position 
in  regard  to  Carson  that  I  was  in  regard  to  my  poor 
boy,  and  I've  prayed  a  thousand  times  for  pardon 
for  what  I  did  in  anger  and  haste.  Henry,  listen  to 
me.  If  ever  a  man  made  a  vital  mistake  I  did,  and 
I'll  bear  the  weight  of  it  to  my  grave.  You  know 
how  I  worried  over  Albert's  drinking  and  his  general 
conduct.  Time  after  time  he  made  promises  that 
he  would  turn  over  a  new  leaf  only  to  break  them. 
Well,  it  was  on  the  last  trip — the  fatal  one  to  New 
York,  where  he  had  gone  and  thrown  away  so  much 
money.  I  wrote  him  a  severe  letter,  and  in  answer 
to  it  I  got  a  pathetic  one,  saying  he  was  sick  and  tired 
of  the  way  he  was  doing  and  begging  me  to  try  him 
once  more  and  send  him  money  to  pay  his  way  home. 
It  was  the  same  old  sort  of  promise  and  I  didn't  have 
faith  in  him.  I  was  unfair,  unjust  to  my  only  son. 
I  wrote  and  refused,  telling  him  that  I  could  not 
trust  him  any  more.  Hell  inspired  that  letter, 
Henry — the  devil  whispered  to  me  that  I'd  been  in- 
dulgent to  the  poor  boy's  injury.  Then  came  the 
news.  When  he  was  found  dead  in  a  small  room  on 
3  23 


Mam'   Linda 

the  top  floor  of  that  squalid  hotel — dead  by  his  own 
hand— my  letter  lay  open  beside  him." 

"Well,  well,  you  couldn't  help  it!"  Dwight  said, 
most  awkwardly,  and  he  crossed  his  short,  fat  legs 
anew  and  reached  for  an  open  box  of  cigars.  "  You 
were  trying  to  do  your  duty  as  you  saw  it,  and  to 
the  best  of  your  ability." 

"  Yes,  but  my  method,  Henry,  resulted  in  misery 
and  grief  to  me  and  Helen  that  can  never  be  cured. 
You  see,  it  is  because  of  that  awful  mistake  that  I 
take  such  an  interest  in  Carson.  I  love  him  because 
Albert  loved  him,  and  because  sometimes  it  seems 
to  me  that  you  are  most  too  quick  to  condemn  him. 
Oh,  he's  different!  Carson  has  changed  wonderfully 
since  Albert  died.  He  doesn't  drink  to  excess  now, 
and  Garner  says  he  has  quit  playing  cards,  having 
only  one  aim,  and  that  to  win  this  political  race — 
to  win  it  to  please  you,  Henry." 

' '  Win  it ! "  Dwight  sniffed .  ' '  He 's  already  as  dead 
as  a  salt  mackerel — laid  out  stiff  and  stark  by  his  own 
bull-headed  stupidity.  I '  ve  always  talked  down  drink- 
ing and  card-playing,  but  I  have  known  some  men 
to  succeed  in  life  who  had  such  habits  in  modera- 
tion ;  but  you  nor  I  nor  no  one  else  ever  saw  a  block- 
head succeed  at  anything.  I  tell  you  he'll  never 
make  a  successful  politician.  Wiggin  will  beat  the 
hind  sights  off  of  him.  Wiggin  is  simply  making 
capital  of  the  fool's  inability  to  control  his  tem- 
per and  sympathies.  Wiggin  would  have  let  that 
mob  thrash  his  own  father  and  mother  rather  than 
antagonize  them  and  lose  their  votes.  He  knows 
Carson  comes  of  fighting  stock,  and  he  will  continue 
to  egg  Dan  Willis  and  others  on,  knowing  that  every 

24 


Mam*   Linda 

resentful  word  from  Carson  will  make  enemies  for 
him  by  the  score." 

"Oh,  I  can  see  that,  too!"  the  Major  sighed;  "but, 
to  save  me,  I  can't  help  admiring  the  boy.  He 
thinks  the  White  Caps  did  wrong  that  night  and  he 
simply  can't  pretend  otherwise.  It  is  the  principle 
of  the  thing,  Henry.  He  is  an  unusual  sort  of  can- 
didate, and  his  stand  may  ruin  his  chances,  but  I — 
I  glory  in  his  firmness.  I  must  say  that." 

"  Oh  yes,  that's  the  trouble  with  you  sentimental 
people,"  Dwight  fumed.  "Between  you  and  the 
boy's  doting  mother,  the  Lord  only  knows  where 
he'll  land.  I've  overlooked  a  lot  in  him  in  the  hope 
that  he'd  put  this  election  through,  but  I  shall  let 
him  go  his  own  way  now.  It  has  come  to  a  pretty 
pass  if  I  have  to  see  my  son  beaten  to  the  dust  by  a 
man  of  Wiggin's  stamp  because  of  that  long-legged 
negro  boy  of  yours  who  would  have  been  better  long 
ago  if  he  had  been  soundly  thrashed." 

When  his  visitor  had  gone  Dwight  dropped  his  un- 
finished cigar  into  the  grate  and  went  slowly  up- 
stairs to  his  wife's  room.  At  a  small-paned  window 
overlooking  the  flower-garden,  on  a  couch  supported 
in  a  reclining  position  by  several  puffy  pillows,  was 
Mrs.  Dwight.  She  was  well  past  middle-age  and  of 
extremely  delicate  physique.  Her  hair  was  snowy 
white,  her  skin  thin  to  transparency,  her  veins  full 
and  blue. 

"That  was  Major  Warren,  wasn't  it?"  she  asked, 
in  a  soft,  sweet  voice,  as  she  put  down  the  magazine 
she  had  been  reading. 

"Yes,"  Dwight  answered,  as  he  went  to  a  lit- 
tle desk  in  one  corner  of  the  room  and  took  a 


Mam'   Linda 

paper  from  a  pigeon-hole  and  put  it  into  his 
pocket. 

"How  did  he  happen  to  come  over  so  early?"  the 
lady  pursued. 

"Because  he  wanted  to,  I  reckon,"  Dwight  start- 
ed out,  impatiently,  and  then  a  note  of  caution  came 
into  his  voice  as  he  remembered  the  warning  of  the 
family  physician  against  causing  the  patient  even  the 
slightest  worry.  "Warren  hasn't  a  blessed  thing  to 
do,  you  know,  from  morn  till  night.  So  when  he 
strikes  a  busy  man  he  is  apt  to  hang  on  to  him  and 
talk  in  his  long-winded  way  about  any  subject  that 
takes  possession  of  his  brain.  He's  great  on  show- 
ing men  how  to  manage  their  own  affairs.  It  takes 
an  idle  man  to  do  that.  If  that  man  hadn't  had 
money  left  to  him  he  would  now  be  begging  his  bread 
from  door  to  door." 

"Somehow  I  fancied  it  was  about  Carson,"  Mrs. 
Dwight  sighed. 

"There  you  go!"  her  husband  said,  with  as  much 
grace  of  evasion  as  lay  in  his  sturdy  compound. 
"Lying  there  from  day  to  day,  you  seem  to  have 
contracted  Warren's  complaint.  You  think  nobody 
can  drop  in  even  for  a  minute  without  coming  about 
your  boy — your  boy!  Some  day,  if  you  live  long 
enough,  you  may  discover  that  the  universe  was  not 
created  solely  for  your  son,  nor  made  just  to  revolve 
around  him  either." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  do  worry  about  Carson  a  great 
deal,"  the  invalid  admitted;  "but  you  haven't  told 
me  right  out  that  the  Major  was  not  speaking  of 
him." 

The  old  man's  face  was  the  playground  of  con- 

26 


Mam'    Linda 

flicting  impulses.  He  grew  red  with  anger  and  his 
lips  trembled  on  the  very  verge  of  an  outburst,  but 
he  controlled  himself.  In  fact,  his  irritability  calm- 
ed down  as  he  suddenly  saw  a  loop-hole  through 
which  to  escape  her  questioning. 

"The  truth  is,"  he  said,  "Warren  was  talking 
about  Albert's  death.  He  talked  quite  a  while 
about  it.  He  almost  broke  down." 

"Well,  I'm  so  worried  about  Carson's  campaign 
that  I  imagine  all  sorts  of  trouble,"  Mrs.  Dwight 
sighed.  "  I  lay  awake  nearly  all  of  last  night  think- 
ing about  one  little  thing.  When  he  was  in  his 
room  dressing  the  other  day,  I  heard  something  fall 
to  the  floor.  Hilda  had  taken  him  some  hot  water 
for  shaving,  and  when  she  came  back  she  told  me 
he  had  dropped  his  revolver  out  of  his  pocket.  You 
know  till  then  I  had  had  no  idea  he  carried  one, 
and  while  it  may  be  necessary  at  times,  the  idea  is 
very  disagreeable." 

"You  needn't  let  that  bother  you,"  Dwight  said, 
as  he  took  his  hat  to  go  down  to  his  office  at  his 
warehouse.  "  Nearly  all  the  young  men  carry  them 
because  they  think  it  looks  smart.  Most  of  them 
would  run  like  a  scared  dog  if  they  saw  one  pointed 
at  them  even  in  fun." 

"  Well,  I  hope  my  boy  will  never  have  any  use  for 
one,"  the  invalid  said.  "  He  is  not  of  a  quarrelsome 
nature.  It  takes  a  good  deal  to  make  him  angry, 
but  when  he  gets  so  he  is  not  easily  controlled." 


IV 


HE  young  men  in  Carson  Dwight's  set 
had  an  odd  sort  of  lounging  -  place. 
It  was  Keith  Gordon's  room  above  his 
father's  bank  in  an  old  building  which 
had  withstood  the  shot  and  shell  of  the 
Civil  War.  "The  Den,"  as  it  was  called  by  its  nu- 
merous hap-hazard  occupants,  was  reached  from  the 
street  on  the  outside  by  a  narrow  flight  of  worm- 
eaten  and  rickety  stairs  and  a  perilous  little  balcony 
or  passage  that  clung  to  the  brick  wall,  twenty  feet 
from  the  ground,  along  the  full  length  of  the  building. 
It  was  here  in  one  of  the  four  beds  that  Keith  slept, 
when  there  was  room  for  him.  After  a  big  dance  or 
a  match  game  of  baseball,  when  there  were  impecu- 
nious visitors  from  neighboring  towns  left  over  for 
various  and  sundry  reasons,  Keith  had  to  seek  the 
sanctimonious  solitude  of  his  father's  home  or  go  to 
the  hotel. 

The  den  was  about  twenty-five  feet  square.  It 
was  not  as  luxurious  as  such  bachelor  quarters  went 
in  Augusta,  Savannah,  or  even  Atlanta,  but  it 
answered  the  purpose  of  "the  gang"  which  made 
use  of  it.  Keith  frankly  declared  that  he  had  over- 
hauled and  replenished  it  for  the  last  time.  He  said 
that  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  keep  wash- 
basins and  pitchers,  when  they  were  hurled  out  of 

28 


Mam'    Linda 

the  windows  for  pure  amusement  of  men  who  didn't 
care  whether  they  washed  or  not.  As  for  the  laundry 
bill,  he  happened  to  know  that  it  was  larger  than 
that  of  the  Johnston  House  or  the  boarding  depart- 
ment of  the  Barley  Female  College.  He  said,  too, 
that  he  had  warned  the  gang  for  the  last  time  that 
the  room  would  be  closed  if  any  more  clog-dancing 
were  indulged  in.  He  said  his  father  complained 
that  the  plastering  was  dropping  down  on  his  desk 
below,  and  sensible  men  ought  to  know  that  a  thing 
like  that  could  not  go  on  forever. 

The  rules  concerning  the  payment  for  drinks  were 
certainly  lax.  No  accounts  were  kept  of  any  man's 
indebtedness.  Any  member  of  the  gang  was  at  liberty 
to  stow  away  a  flask  of  any  size  in  the  bureau  or  wash- 
stand  drawer,  or  under  the  mattresses  or  pillows  of 
his  or  anybody  else's  bed,  where  Skelt,  the  negro 
who  swept  the  room,  and  loved  stimulants,  could 
not  find  it. 

Bill  Garner,  as  brainy  as  he  was,  while  he  was 
always  welcome  at  his  father's  house  in  the  country, 
a  mile  from  town,  seemed  to  love  the  company  of 
this  noisy  set.  Through  the  day  it  was  said  of  him 
that  he  could  read  and  saturate  himself  with  more 
law  than  any  man  in  the  State,  but  at  night  his 
recreation  was  a  cheap  cigar,  his  old  bulging  carpet 
slippers,  a  cosey  chair  in  Keith's  room,  and — who 
would  think  it? — the  most  thrilling  Indian  dime 
novel  on  the  market.  He  could  quote  the  French, 
German,  Italian,  and  Spanish  classics  by  the  page 
in  a  strange  musical  accent  he  had  acquired  without 
the  aid  of  a  master  or  any  sort  of  intercourse  with 
native  foreigners.  He  knew  and  loved  all  things 

29 


Mam'   Linda 

pertaining  to  great  literature — said  he  had  a  natural 
ear  for  Wagner's  music,  had  comprehended  Edwin 
Booth's  finest  work,  knew  a  good  picture  when  he 
saw  it ;  and  yet  he  had  to  have  his  dime  novel.  In 
it  he  found  mental  rest  and  relaxation  that  was  sup- 
plied by  nothing  else.  His  bedfellow  was  Bob  Smith, 
the  genial,  dapper,  ever  daintily  clad  clerk  at  the 
Johnston  House.  Garner  said  he  liked  to  sleep  with 
Bob  because  Bob  never — sleeping  or  waking — took 
anything  out  of  him  mentally.  Besides  dressing  to 
perfection,  Bob  played  rag-time  on  the  guitar  and 
sang  the  favorite  coon  songs  of  the  day.  His  duties 
at  the  hotel  were  far  from  arduous,  and  so  the  gang 
usually  looked  to  him  to  arrange  dances  and  collect 
toll  for  expenses.  And  Bob  Was  not  without  his 
actual  monetary  value,  as  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel 
had  long  since  discovered,  for  when  Bob  arranged  a 
dance  it  meant  that  various  socially  inclined  drum- 
mers of  good  birth  and  standing  would,  at  a  hint  or 
a  telegram  from  the  clerk,  ''lay  over"  at  Darley  for 
one  night  anyway. 

If  Bob  had  any  quality  that  disturbed  the  surface 
of  his  uniform  equanimity  it  was  his  excessive  pride 
in  Carson  Dwight's  friendship.  He  interlarded  his 
talk  with  what  Carson  had  said  or  done,  and  Car- 
son's candidacy  for  the  Legislature  had  become  his 
paramount  ambition.  Indeed,  it  may  as  well  be 
stated  that  the  rest  of  the  gang  had  espoused 
Dwight's  political  cause  with  equal  enthusiasm. 

It  was  the  Sunday  morning  following  the  night 
Pole  Baker  had  prevented  the  meeting  between 
D wight  and  Dan  Willis,  and  most  of  the  habitual 
loungers  were  present  waiting  for  Skelt  to  black 

30 


Mam'    Linda 

their  boots,  and  deploring  the  turn  of  affairs  which 
looked  so  bad  for  their  favorite.  Wade  Tingle  was 
shaving  at  one  of  the  windows  before  a  mirror  in  a 
cracked  mahogany  frame,  when  they  all  recognized 
Carson's  step  on  the  balcony  and  a  moment  later 
D wight  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Hello,  boys,  how  goes  it?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  right  side  up,  old  man,"  Tingle  replied, 
as  he  began  to  rub  the  lather  into  his  face  with  his 
hand  to  soften  his  week-old  beard  before  shaving. 
"How's  the  race?" 

"It's  all  right,  I  guess,"  Dwight  said,  wearily,  as 
he  came  in  and  sat  down  in  a  vacant  chair  against 
the  wall.  "How  goes  it  in  the  mountains?  I  un- 
derstand you've  been  over  there." 

"  Yes,  trying  to  rake  in  some  ads,  stir  up  my  local 
correspondents,  and  take  subscriptions.  As  to  your 
progress,  old  man,  I'm  sorry  to  say  Wiggin's  given 
it  a  sort  of  black  eye.  There  was  a  meeting  of 
farmers  over  in  the  tenth,  at  Miller's  Spring.  I  was 
blamed  sorry  you  were  not  there.  Wiggin  made 
a  speech.  It  was  a  corker — viewed  as  campaign 
material  solely.  That  chap's  failed  at  the  law,  but 
he's  the  sharpest,  most  unprincipled  manipulator  of 
men's  emotions  I  ever  ran  across.  He  showed  you 
up  as  Sam  Jones  does  the  ring-tailed  monster  of  the 
cloven  foot." 

"What  Carson  said  about  the  Willis  and  Johnson 
mob  was  his  theme,  of  course?"  said  Garner,  above 
the  dog-eared  pages  of  his  thriller. 

"That  and  ten  thousand  things  Carson  never 
dreamed  of,"  returned  Tingle.  "Here's  the  way  it 
went.  The  meeting  was  held  under  a  bush-arbor  to 

31 


Mam*    Linda 

keep  the  sun  off,  and  the  farmers  had  their  wives  and 
children  out  for  a  picnic.  A  long-faced  parson  led 
in  prayer,  some  of  the  old  maids  piped  up  with  a  song 
that  would  have  ripped  slits  in  your  musical  tym- 
panum, Garner,  and  then  a  raw-boned  ploughman 
in  a  hickory  shirt  and  one  gallus  introduced  the 
guest  of  honor.  How  they  could  have  overlooked 
the  editor-in-chief  and  proprietor  of  the  greatest 
agricultural  weekly  in  north  Georgia  and  picked  out 
that  skunk  was  a  riddle  to  me." 

"  Well,  what  did  he  say  ?"  Garner  asked,  as  sharply 
as  if  he  were  cross-examining  a  non-committal  wit- 
ness of  importance. 

"What  did  he  say?"  Tingle  laughed,  as  he  wiped 
the  lather  from  his  face  with  a  ragged  towTel  and  stood 
with  it  in  his  hand.  "  He  began  by  saying  that  he 
had  gone  into  the  race  to  win,  and  that  he  was  going 
to  the  Legislature  as  sure  as  the  sun  was  on  its  way 
down  in  this  country  and  on  its  way  up  in  China. 
He  said  it  was  a  scientific  certainty,  as  easily  demon- 
strated as  two  and  two  make  four.  Those  hardy, 
horny-handed  men  before  him  that  day  were  not 
going  to  the  polls  and  vote  for  a  town  dude  who 
parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  wore  spike-toed  shoes 
that  glittered  like  a  new  dash-board,  and  was  the 
ringleader  of  the  rowdiest  set  of  young  card-players 
and  whiskey-drinkers  that  ever  blackened  the  morals 
of  a  mining-camp.  He  said  that  about  the  gang, 
boys,  and  I  didn't  have  a  thing  to  shoot  with.  In 
fact,  I  had  to  sit  there  and  take  in  more." 

"What  did  he  say  about  his  platform?"  Garner 
asked,  with  a  heavy  frown ;  "  that's  what  1  want  to 
get  at.  You  never  can  hurt  a  politician  by  circulat- 

32 


Mam*    Linda 

ing  the  report  that  he  drinks — that's  what  half  of 
'em  vote  for." 

"  Oh,  his  platform  seemed  to  be  chiefly  that  he  was 
out  to  save  the  common  people  from  the  eternal  dis- 
grace of  voting  for  a  man  like  Dwight.  He  certainly 
piled  it  on  thick  and  heavy.  It  would  have  made 
Carson's  own  mother  slink  away  in  shame.  Carson, 
Wiggin  said,  had  loved  niggers  since  he  was  knee  high 
to  a  duck,  and  had  always  contended  that  a  negro 
owned  by  the  aristocracy  of  the  South  was  ahead  of 
the  white,  razor-back  stock  in  the  mountains  who 
had  never  had  that  advantage.  Carson  was  up  in 
arms  against  the  White  Caps  that  had  come  to 
Darley  and  whipped  those  lazy  coons,  and  was  going 
to  prosecute  every  man  in  the  bunch  to  the  full 
extent  of  the  United  States  law.  If  he  got  into  the 
Legislature  he  intended  to  pass  laws  to  make  it  a 
penitentiary  offence  for  a  white  man  to  shove  a  black 
buck  off  the  sidewalk.  '  But  he's  not  going  to  take 
his  seat  in  the  Capitol  of  Georgia,'  Wiggins  said,  with 
a  yell — '  if  Carson  Dwight  went  to  Atlanta  it  would 
not  be  on  a  free  pass.'  And,  boys,  that  crowd  yelled 
till  the  dry  leaves  overhead  clapped  an  encore.  The 
men  yelled  and  the  women  and  children  yelled." 

"He's  a  contemptible  puppy!"  Dwight  said,  an- 
grily. 

"Yes,  but  he's  a  slick  politician  among  men  of 
that  sort,"  said  Tingle.  "He  certainly  knows  how 
to  talk  and  stir  up  strife." 

"And  I  suppose  you  sat  there  like  a  bump  on  a 
log,  and  listened  to  all  that  without  opening  your 
mouth!"  Keith  Gordon  spoke  up  from  his  bed,  where 
he  lay  in  his  bath-robe  smoking  over  the  remains  of 

33 


Mam'    Linda 

the  breakfast  Skelt  had  brought  from  the  hotel  on 
a  big  black  tray. 

"Well,  I  did — get  up,"  Tingle  answered,  with  a 
manly  flush. 

"  Oh,  you  did!"  Garner  leaned  forward  with  interest. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  happened  to  be  on  hand,  for 
your  paper  has  considerable  influence  over  there." 

"  Yes,  I  got  up.  I  waved  my  hands  up  and  down 
like  a  buzzard  rising,  to  keep  the  crowd  still  till  I 
could  think  of  something  to  say;  but,  Carson,  old 
man,  you  know  what  an  idiot  I  used  to  be  in  college 
debates.  I  could  get  through  fairly  well  on  any- 
thing they  would  let  me  write  down  and  read  off, 
but  it  was  the  impromptu  thing  that  always  rattled 
me.  I  was  as  mad  as  hell  when  I  rose,  but  all  those 
staring  eyes  calmed  me  wonderfully.  I  reckon  I 
stood  there  fully  half  a  minute  swallowing — " 

"You  damned  fool!"  Garner  exclaimed,  in  high 
disgust. 

"  Yes,  that's  exactly  what  I  was,"  Tingle  admitted. 
"I  stood  there  gasping  like  a  catfish  enjoying  his 
first  excursion  in  open  air.  It  was  deathly  still. 
I've  heard  it  said  that  dying  men  notice  the  smallest 
things  about  them.  I  remember  I  saw  the  horses 
and  mules  haltered  out  under  the  trees  with  their 
hay  and  fodder  under  their  noses — the  dinner-baskets 
all  in  a  cluster  at  the  spring  guarded  by  a  negro 
woman.  Then  what  do  you  think?  Old  Jeff  Con- 
don spoke  up. 

"Lead  us  in  prayer,  brother,'  he  said,  in  reveren- 
tial tones,  and  since  I  was  born  I  never  heard  so 
much  laughing." 

"You  certainly  did  play  into  Wiggin's  hands," 
34 


Mam1   Linda 

growled  the  disgruntled  Garner.     "That's  exactly 
what  a  glib-tongued  skunk  like  him  would  want." 

"  Well,  it  gave  me  a  minute  to  try  to  get  my  wind, 
anyway,"  said  Tingle,  still  red  in  the  face,  but  I 
wasn't  equal  to  a  mob  of  baseball  rooters  like  that. 
I  started  in  to  deny  some  of  Wiggin's  charges  when 
another  smart  Alec  spoke  up  and  said : '  Hold  on !  tell 
us  about  the  time  you  and  your  candidate  started 
home  from  a  ball  at  Catoosa  Springs  in  a  buggy,  and 
were  so  drunk  that  the  horse  took  you  to  the  house 
of  a  man  who  used  to  own  him  sixteen  miles  from 
where  you  wanted  to  go.  Of  course,  you  all  know, 
boys,  that  was  a  big  exaggeration,  but  I  had  no  idea 
it  was  generally  known.  Anyway,  I  thought  the 
crowd  would  laugh  their  heads  off.  I  reckon  it  was 
the  way  I  looked.  I  felt  as  if  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  there  had  mashed  a  bad  egg  on  me  and 
was  chuckling  over  their  marksmanship.  I  ended 
up  by  getting  mad,  and  I  saw  by  Wiggin's  grin  that 
he  liked  that.  I  managed  to  say  a  few  things  in 
denial,  and  then  Wiggin  got  up  and  roasted  me  and 
my  paper  to  a  turn.  He  said  that  in  supporting 
Dwight  editorially  the  Headlight  was  giving  sanction 
to  Dwight's  ideas  in  favor  of  the  negro  and  against 
honest  white  people,  and  that  every  man  there 
who  had  any  family  or  State  pride  ought  to  stop 
taking  the  dirty  sheet ;  and,  bless  your  life,  some  of 
them  did  cancel  their  subscriptions  when  they  met 
me  after  the  speaking;  but  I'm  going  to  keep  on 
mailing  it,  anyway.  It  will  be  like  sending  free  tracts 
to  the  heathen,  but  it  may  bear  fruit." 


V 


JALF  an  hour  later  all  the  young  men 
i  had  left  the  room  except  Garner  and 
Dwight.  Garner  still  wore  the  frown 
I  brought  to  his  broad  brow  by  Tingle's 
,  recital. 

"  I've  set  my  heart  on  putting  this  thing  through," 
he  said;  "and  while  it  looks  kind  of  shaky,  I  haven't 
lost  all  hope  yet.  Of  course,  your  reckless  remarks 
about  the  White  Caps  have  considerably  damaged  us 
in  the  mountains,  but  we  may  live  it  down.  It  may 
die  a  natural  death  if  you  and  Dan  Willis  don't  meet 
and  plug  away  at  each  other  and  set  the  talk  afloat 
again.  I  reckon  he'll  keep  out  of  your  way  when 
he's  sober,  anyway." 

"I  am  not  running  after  him,"  Carson  returned. 
"  I  simply  said  what  I  thought  and  Wiggin  made  the 
most  of  it." 

Garner  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  then  he 
folded  his  dime  novel  and  bent  it  across  his  knee,  and 
when  he  finally  spoke  Dwight  thought  he  had  never 
seen  a  graver  look  on  the  strong  face.  He  had  seen 
it  full  of  emotional  tears  when  Garner  was  at  the 
height  of  earnest  appeal  to  a  jury  in  a  murder  case ; 
he  had  seen  it  dark  with  the  fury  of  unjust  legal 
defeat,  but  now  there  was  a  strange  feminine  white- 
ness at  the  corners  of  the  big  facile  mouth,  a  queer 
twitching  of  the  lips. 

36 


Mam'    Linda 

» 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  you  a  secret,"  he 
said,  falteringly.  "I've  come  near  it  several  times 
and  backed  out.  It's  a  subject  I  don't  know  how 
to  handle.  It's  about  a  woman,  Carson.  You 
know  I'm  not  a  ladies'  man.  I  don't  call  on  women ; 
I  don't  take  them  buggy-riding;  I  don't  dance  with 
them,  or  even  know  how  to  fire  soft  things  at  them 
like  you  and  Keith,  but  I've  had  my  experience." 

"It  certainly  is  a  surprise  to  me,"  Dwight  said, 
sympathetically,  and  then  in  the  shadow  of  Garner's 
seriousness  he  found  himself  unable  to  make  further 
comment. 

"  I  reckon  you'll  lose  all  respect  for  me  for  thinking 
there  was  a  ghost  of  a  chance  in  that  particular 
quarter,"  Garner  pursued,  without  meeting  his  com- 
panion's eye.  "  But,  Carson,  my  boy,  there  is  a 
certain  woman  that  every  man  who  knows  her  has 
loved  or  is  still  loving.  Keith's  crazy  about  her, 
though  he  has  given  up  all  hope  as  I  did  long  ago, 
and  even  poor  Bob  Smith  thinks  he's  in  luck  if  she 
will  only  listen  to  one  of  his  new  songs  or  let  him 
do  her  some  favor.  We  all  love  her,  Carson,  be- 
cause she  is  so  sweet  and  kind  to  us — " 

"You  mean — "  Dwight  interrupted,  impulsively, 
and  then  lapsed  into  silence,  an  awkward  flush  rising 
to  his  brow. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  Helen  Warren,  old  man.  As  I  say, 
I  had  never  thought  of  a  woman  that  way  in  my  life. 
We  were  thrown  together  once  at  a  house-party  at 
Hilburn's  farm — well,  I  simply  went  daft.  She  never 
refused  to  walk  with  me  when  I  asked  her,  and 
seemed  specially  interested  in  my  profession.  I 
didn't  know  it  at  the  time,  but  I  have  since  dis- 

37 


- 


L52611 


Mam'    Linda 

covered  that  she  has  that  sweet  way  with  every 
man,  rich  or  poor,  married  or  single.  Well,  to  make 
a  long  story  short,  I  proposed  to  her.  The  whole 
thing  is  stamped  on  my  brain  as  with  a  branding-iron. 
We  had  taken  a  long  walk  that  morning  and  were 
seated  under  a  big  beech -tree  near  a  spring.  She 
kept  asking  about  my  profession,  her  face  beaming, 
and  it  all  went  to  my  head.  I  knew  that  I  was  the 
ugliest  man  in  the  State,  that  I  had  no  style  about 
me,  and  knew  nothing  about  being  nice  to  women 
of  her  sort ;  but  her  interest  in  everything  pertaining 
to  the  law  made  me  think,  you  know,  that  she  ad- 
mired that  kind  of  thing.  I  went  wild.  As  I  told 
her  how  I  felt  I  actually  cried.  Think  of  it — I  was 
silly  enough  to  blubber  like  a  baby!  I  can't  de- 
scribe what  happened.  She  was  shocked  and  pained 
beyond  description.  She  had  never  dreamed  that  I 
felt  that  way.  I  ended  by  asking  her  to  try  to  forget 
it  all,  and  we  had  a  long,  awful  walk  to  the  house." 

"That  was  tough,"  Carson  Dwight  said,  a  queer 
expression  on  his  face. 

"Well,  I've  told  it  to  you  for  a  special  reason," 
Garner  said,  with  a  big,  trembling  sigh.  "Carson, 
I  am  a  close  observer,  and  I  afterwards  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  knew  why  she  had  led  me  on  to  talk  so 
much  about  the  law  and  my  work  in  particular." 

"Oh,  you  found  that  out!"  Carson  said,  almost 
absently. 

"Yes,  my  boy,  it  was  about  the  time  you  and  I 
were  thinking  of  going  in  together.  It  was  all  on 
your  account." 

Carson  stared  straight  at  Garner.  "  My  account  ? 
Oh  no!" 

38 


Mam'    Linda 

"  Yes,  on  your  account.  I've  kept  it  from  you  all 
this  time.  I'm  your  friend  now  in  full — to  the  very 
bone,  but  at  that  time  I  felt  too  sore  to  tell  you. 
I'd  lost  all  I  cared  for  on  earth,  but  I  simply  had  too 
much  of  primitive  man  left  in  me  to  let  you  know 
how  well  you  stood.  My  God,  Carson,  about  that 
time  I  used  to  sit  at  my  desk  behind  some  old  book 
pretending  to  read,  but  just  looking  at  you  as  you 
sat  at  work  wondering  how  it  would  feel  to  have  what 
was  yours.  Then  I  watched  you  both  together;  you 
seemed  actually  made  for  each  other,  an  ideal  couple. 
Then  came  your — she  refused  you." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  but  why  talk  about  it,  Garner?" 
Carson  had  risen  and  stood  in  the  doorway  in  the 
rays  of  the  morning  sun.  There  was  silence  for  a 
moment.  The  church  bells  were  ringing  and  negroes 
and  whites  were  passing  along  the  street  below. 

"  It  may  be  good  for  me  to  speak  of  it  and  be  done 
with  it,  or  it  may  not,"  said  Garner;  "but  this  is 
what  I  was  coming  to.  I've  said  it  was  a  long  time 
before  I  could  tell  you  that  she  was  once — I  don't 
know  how  she  is  now,  but  she  was  at  one  time  in  love 
with  you." 

"Oh  no,  no,  she  was  never  that!"  D wight  said. 
"We  were  great  friends,  but  she  never  cared  that 
much  for  me  or  for  any  one," 

"Well,  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  say  what 
I  thought  about  that,  and  I  have  only  just  now  taken 
another  step  in  self-renunciation.  Carson,  I  can  now 
say  that  you  didn't  have  a  fair  deal,  and  that  I  have 
reached  a  point  in  which  I  want  to  see  you  get  it. 
I  think  I  know  why  she  refused  you." 

"You  do?"  Dwight  said,  pale  and  excited,  as  he 
4  39 


Mam'    Linda 

came  away  from  the  door  and  leaned  heavily  against 
the  wall  near  his  friend. 

"Yes,  it  was  this  way.  I've  studied  it  all  out. 
She  loved  Albert  as  few  women  love  their  brothers, 
and  his  grim  end  was  an  almost  unbearable  shock. 
After  his  death,  you  know  it  leaked  out  that  you 
had  been  Albert's  constant  companion  through  his 
dissipation,  almost,  in  fact,  up  to  the  very  end. 
She  couldn't  reconcile  herself  to  your  part,  innocent 
as  it  was,  in  the  tragedy,  and  it  simply  killed  the 
feeling  she  had  for  you.  I  suppose  it  is  natural  to  a 
character  as  strong  as  hers." 

"I've  always  feared  that — that  was  the  reason," 
said  Dwight,  falteringly,  as  he  went  back  to  the  door 
and  looked  out.  There  was  a  droop  of  utter  dejection 
on  him  and  his  face  seemed  to  have  aged.  "  Garner, " 
he  said,  suddenly,  "  there  is  no  use  denying  anything. 
You  have  admitted  your  love  for  her,  why  should  I 
deny  mine?  I  never  cared  for  any  other  woman 
and  I  never  shall." 

"That's  right,  but  you  didn't  get  a  fair  deal,  all 
the  same,"  said  Garner.  "  She's  never  looked  for  any 
sort  of  justification  in  your  conduct ;  her  poor  broth- 
er's death  stands  like  a  draped  wall  between  you,  but 
I  know  you  were  not  as  black  as  you  were  painted. 
Carson,  all  the  time  you  were  keeping  pace  with 
Albert  Warren  you  were  blind  to  the  gulf  ahead  of 
him  and  were  simply  glorying  in  his  friendship — 
because  he  was  her  brother.  Ah,  I  know  that  feeling !" 

Carson  was  silent,  while  Garner's  gray  eyes  rested 
on  him  for  a  moment  full  of  conviction,  and  then  he 
nodded.  "Yes,  I  think  that  was  it.  It  was  my 
ruination,  but  I  could  not  get  away  from  the  fascina- 

40 


Mam'    Linda 

tion  of  his  companionship.  He  fairly  worshipped  her 
and  used  to  talk  of  her  constantly  when  we  were 
together,  and  he — he  sometimes  told  me  things  she 
kept  back.  He  knew  how  I  felt.  I  told  him. 
Through  him  I  seemed  to  be  closer  to  her.  But  when 
the  news  came  that  he  was  dead,  and  when  I  met 
her  at  the  funeral  at  the  church,  and  caught  her  eye, 
I  saw  her  shrink  back  in  abhorrence.  She  wouldn't 
go  out  with  me  ever  again  after  that,  and  was  never 
exactly  the  same." 

"That  was  two  years  ago,  my  boy,"  Garner  said, 
significantly,  "and  your  character  has  changed. 
You  are  a  better,  firmer  man.  In  fact,  it  seems  to 
me  that  your  change  dates  from  Albert  Warren's 
death.  But  now  I'm  coming  to  the  thing  that 
prompted  me  to  say  all  this.  I  met  Major  Warren 
in  the  post-office  this  morning.  He  was  greatly  ex- 
cited. Carson,  she  has  just  written  him  that  she  is 
coming  home  for  a  long  stay  and  the  old  gentleman 
is  simply  wild  with  delight." 

"Oh,  she's  coming,  then!"  Dwight  exclaimed,  in 
surprise. 

"Yes,  and  Keith  and  Bob  and  the  rest  of  her 
adorers  will  go  crazy  over  the  news  and  want  to 
celebrate  it.  I  didn't  tell  them.  I  wanted  you  to 
know  it  first.  There  is  one  other  thing.  You  know 
you  can't  tell  whether  there  is  anything  in  an  idle 
report,  but  the  gossips  say  she  has  perhaps  met  her 
fate  down  there.  I've  even  heard  his  name — one 
Earle  Sanders,  a  well-to-do  cotton  merchant  of  good 
standing  in  the  business  world.  But  I'll  never 
believe  she's  engaged  to  him  till  the  cards  are  out." 

"I  really  think  it  may  be  true,"  Carson  Dwight 

41 


Mam'    Linda 

said,  a  firm,  set  expression  about  his  lips.  "I've 
heard  of  him.  He's  a  man  of  fine  character  and  in- 
tellect. Yes,  it  may  be  true,  Garner." 

"Well,"  and  Garner  drew  himself  up  and  folded 
his  arms,  "if  it  should  happen  to  be  so,  Carson,  there 
would  be  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  would  be  to 
grin  and  bear  it." 

"Yes,  that  would  be  the  only  thing,"  D wight 
made  answer.  "She  has  a  right  to  happiness,  and 
it  would  have  been  wrong  for  her  to  have  tied  herself 
to  me,  when  I  was  what  I  was,  and  when  I  am  still  as 
great  a  failure  as  I  am." 

He  turned  suddenly  out  onto  the  passage,  and 
Garner  heard  his  resounding  tread  as  he  walked 
away. 

"Poor  old  chap,"  Garner  mused,  as  he  leaned 
forward  and  looked  at  the  threadbare  toes  of  his 
slippers,  "if  he  weathers  this  storm  he'll  make  a 
man  right — if  not,  he'll  go  down  with  the  great 
majority,  the  motley  throng  meant  for  God  only 
knows  what  purpose." 


VI 


[HE  Warren  homestead  was  in  a  turmoil 
'of  excitement  over  Helen's  return. 
The  ex-slaves  of  the  family  for  miles 
I  around  had  assembled  to  celebrate  the 
[occasion  in  quite  the  ante-bellum  fash- 
ion. The  men  and  grown  boys  sat  about  the  front 
lawn  and  on  the  steps  of  the  long  veranda  and 
talked  of  the  day  Helen  was  born,  of  her  childhood, 
of  her  beauty  and  numerous  conquests  away  from 
them,  and  of  the  bare  possibility  of  her  deigning  to 
accept  the  hand  of  some  one  of  her  powerful  and 
wealthy  suitors. 

In  her  own  chamber,  a  great  square  room  with 
many  windows,  Helen,  tall,  graceful,  with  light- 
brown  eyes  and  almost  golden  hair,  was  receiving 
the  women  and  girls.  She  had  brought  a  present 
suitable  for  each  of  them,  as  they  knew  she  would, 
and  the  general  rejoicing  was  equal  to  that  of  an 
old-time  Georgia  Christmas. 

"You  are  all  here,"  Helen  smiled,  as  she  looked 
about  the  room,  "except  Mam'  Linda.  Is  she  not 
well?" 

"  Yessum,  she's  well  as  common,"  Jennie,  a  yellow 
house-maid,  said,  "as  well  as  she  been  since  Pete 
had  dat  scrimmage  wid  de  White  Caps.  Missie,  you 
gwine  notice  er  gre't  change  in  Mam'  Lindy.  Since 

43 


Mam'   Linda 

dat  tumble  night,  while  she  seem  strong  in  de  body, 
she  looks  powerful  weak  in  de  face  en  sperit.  Unc' 
Lewis  is  worried  about  'er.  She  des  set  in  er  cottage 
do'  en  rock  back  an'  fo'th  all  day  long.  You  done 
heard  'bout  dat  lambastin',  'ain't  you,  Missie  ?" 

"Yes,  my  father  wrote  me  about  it,"  Helen  re- 
plied, an  expression  of  sympathetic  pain  on  her 
well  -  featured  face,  "but  he  didn't  tell  me  that 
mammy  was  taking  it  so  hard." 

"He  was  tryin'  ter  keep  you  fum  worryin'," 
Jennie  said,  observantly.  "Marster  knowed  how 
much  sto'  you  set  by  yo'  old  mammy.  He  was  de 
maddest  man  you  ever  laid  eyes  on  dat  night,  but 
he  couldn't  do  nothin',  fer  it  was  all  over,  en  dem 
white  trash  done  skedaddle  back  whar  dey  come 
fum." 

"And  was  Pete  so  much  to  blame?"  Helen  asked, 
her  voice  shaking. 

"  Blame  fer  de  company  he  been  keepin',  Missie — 
dat's  all ;  but  what  you  gwine  ter  do  wid  er  strappin' 
young  nigger  growin'  up?  It  des  like  it  was  in  de 
old  day  fo'  de  war.  De  niggers  had  to  have  deir 
places  ter  meet  an'  cut  up  shines.  Dey  been  done 
too  much  of  it  at  Ike  Bowen's.  De  white  folks  dat 
lived  round  dar  couldn't  sleep  at  night.  It  was  one 
long  shindig  or  a  fist-cuff  scrap  fum  supper  till 
daylight." 

"  Well,  I  wish  Mam'  Linda  would  come  to  see  me," 
Helen  said.  "I'm  anxious  about  her.  If  she  isn't 
here  soon  I'll  go  to  her." 

"She's  comin'  right  on,  Missie,"  another  negro 
girl  said,  "but  she  tol'  Unc'  Lewis  she  was  gwine  ter 
wait  till  we  all  cleared  out.  She  say  you  her  baby, 

44 


Mam*    Linda 

en  she  ain't  gwine  ter  be  bothered  wid  so  many, 
when  she  see  you  de  fust  time  after  so  long." 

"That's  exactly  like  her,"  Helen  smiled.  "Well, 
you  all  must  go  now,  and,  Jennie,  tell  her  I  am  dying 
to  see  her." 

The  room  was  soon  cleared  of  its  chattering  and 
laughing  throng,  and  Linda,  supported  by  her  hus- 
band, a  stalwart  mulatto,  came  from  her  cottage 
behind  the  house  and  went  up  to  Helen's  room. 
She  was  short,  rather  portly,  about  half  white,  and 
for  that  reason  had  a  remarkably  intelligent  face 
which  bore  the  marks  of  a  strong  character.  En- 
tering the  room,  after  sharply  enjoining  her  hus- 
band to  wait  for  her  in  the  hall,  she  went  straight 
up  to  Helen  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  young  lady's 
head. 

"So  I  got  my  baby  back  once  mo',"  she  said, 
tenderly. 

"  Yes,  I  couldn't  stay  away,  Mammy,"  Helen  said, 
with  an  indulgent  smile.  "After  all,  home  is  the 
sweetest  place  on  earth — but  you  mustn't  stand  up; 
get  a  chair." 

The  old  woman  obeyed,  slowly  placing  the  chair 
near  that  of  her  mistress  and  sitting  down.  "I'm 
glad  you  got  back,  honey,"  she  said.  "I  loves  all 
my  white  folks,  but  you  is  my  baby,  en  I  never  could 
talk  to  de  rest  of  um  lak  I  kin  ter  you.  Oh,  honey, 
yo'  old  mammy  has  had  lots  en  lots  er  trouble!" 

"  I  know,  Mammy,  father  wrote  me  about  it,  and 
I've  heard  more  since  I  got  here.  I  know  how  you 
love  Pete." 

Linda  folded  her  arms  on  her  breast  and  leaned 
forward  till  her  elbows  rested  on  her  knees.  Helen 

45 


Mam'    Linda 

saw  a  wave  of  emotion  shake  her  whole  body  as  she 
straightened  up  and  faced  her  with  eyes  that  seemed 
melting  in  grief.  "Honey,"  she  said,  "folks  said 
when  de  law  come  en  give  we  all  freedom  dat  de 
good  day  was  at  hand.  It  was  ter  be  a  time  er 
plenty  en  joy  fer  black  folks ;  but,  honey,  never  while 
I  was  er  slave  did  I  had  ter  suffer  what  I'm  goin' 
thoo  now.  In  de  old  time  marster  looked  after  us; 
de  lash  never  was  laid  on  de  back  er  one  o'  his  nig- 
gers. No  white  pusson  never  dared  to  hit  one  of 
us,  en  yit  now  in  dis  day  er  glorious  freedom,  er 
whole  gang  of  um  come  in  de  dead  er  night  en  tied 
my  child  wid  ropes  en  tuck  turn  about  lashin'  'im. 
Honey,  sometimes  I  think  dey  ain't  no  Gawd  fer 
a  pusson  wid  one  single  streak  er  black  blood  in 
'im.  Ef  dey  is  er  Gawd  fer  sech  es  me,  why  do  He 
let  me  pass  thoo  what  been  put  on  me  ?  I  heard  dat 
boy's  cryin'  half  er  mile,  honey,  en  stood  in  de  flo' 
er  my  house  en  couldn't  move,  listenin'  en  listenin' 
ter  his  screams  en  dat  lash  fallin'  on  'im.  Den  dey 
let  'im  loose  en  he  come  runnin'  erlong  de  street  ter 
find  me — ter  find  his  mammy,  honey — his  mammy 
who  couldn't  do  nothin'  fer  'im.  En  dar  right  at  my 
feet  he  fell  over  in  er  faint.  I  thought  he  was  dead 
en  never  would  open  his  eyes  ergin." 

"And  I  wasn't  here  to  comfort  you!"  Helen  said, 
in  a  tearful  tone  of  self-reproach.  "  You  were  alone 
through  it  all." 

"No,  I  wasn't,  honey.  Thank  de  Lawd,  dar  is 
some  er  de  right  kind  er  white  folks  left.  Marse 
Carson  Dwight  heard  it  all  fum  his  room  en  come 
over.  He  raised  Pete  up  en  tuck  'im  in  an'  laid  'im 
on  de  baid.  He  tuck  'im  up  in  his  arms,  honey, 

46 


Mam'    Linda 

young  marster  did,  en  set  to  work  to  bring  'im  to. 
An'  after  de  po'  boy  was  easy  en  ersleep  en  de  doctor 
gone  off,  Marse  Carson  come  ter  me  en  tuck  my 
hand.  'Mam'  Lindy,'  he  said,  es  pale  as  ef  he'd 
been  sick  er  long  time,  'dis  night's  work  has  give 
me  some'n'  ter  think  erbout.  De  best  white  men 
in  de  Souf  won't  stan'  fer  dis.  Sech  things  cayn't 
go  on  forever.  Ef  I  go  to  de  Legislature  I'll  see  dat 
dey  gwine  ter  pass  laws  ter  pertect  you  faithful  old 
folks." 

"  Carson  said  that  ?"  Helen's  voice  was  husky,  her 
glance  averted. 

"Yes,  en  he  was  dead  in  earnest,  honey;  he  wasn't 
des  talkin'  ter  comfort  me.  I  know,  kase  I  done 
hear  suppen  else  dat  happened  since  den." 

"What  was  that?"  Helen  asked. 

"Why,  dey  say  dat  Marse  Carson  went  straight 
down -town  en  tried  ter  find  somebody  dat  was  in 
de  mob.  He  heard  Dan  Willis  was  among  'em — 
you  know  who  he  is,  honey.  He's  er  bad,  desp'rate 
moonshine  man.  Well,  Marse  Carson  spoke  his 
mind  about  'im,  an'  dared  'im  out  in  de  open.  Unc' 
Lewis  said  Mr.  Garner  an'  all  Marse  Carson's  friends 
tried  to  stop  'im,  kase  it  would  go  dead  agin  'im  in 
his  'lection,  but  Marse  Carson  wouldn't  take  back  er 
word,  en  was  so  mad  he  couldn't  hold  in.  En  dat 
another  hard  thing  to  bear,  honey,"  Linda  went  on. 
"  Des  think,  Marse  Carson  cayn't  even  try  to  help  er 
po'  old  woman  lak  me  widout  ruinin'  his  own  chances. ' ' 

" Is  it  as  serious  as  that?"  Helen  asked,  with  deep 
concern. 

"  Yes,  honey,  he  never  kin  win  his  race  lessen  he 
act  diffunt.  Dey  say  dat  man  Wiggin  is  laughin' 

47 


Mam'    Linda 

fit  ter  kill  hisse'f  over  de  way  he  got  de  upper  hold. 
I  told  Marse  Carson  des  t'other  day  he  mustn't  do 
dat  way,  but  he  laughed  in  my  face  in  de  sweet  way 
he  always  did  have.  '  Ef  dey  vote  ergin  me  fer  dat, 
Mam'  Lindy,'  he  say,  'deir  votes  won't  be  worth 
much.'  Marse  Carson  is  sho  got  high  principle, 
honey.  His  pa  think  he  ain't  worth  much,  but  he's 
all  right.  You  mark  my  words,  he's  gwine  ter  make 
a  gre't  big  man — he  gwine  ter  do  dat  kase  he's  got 
er  tender  heart  in  'im,  an  ain't  afeard  of  anything  dat 
walk  on  de  yeath.  He  may  lose  dis  one  'lection, 
but  he'll  not  stop.  I  know  young  white  men,  thoo 
en  thoo,  en  I  never  yit  seen  er  better  one." 

"Have  you — have  you  seen  him  recently?"  Helen 
asked,  surprised  at  the  catch  in  her  voice. 

"Oh  yes,  honey,"  the  old  woman  said,  plaintive- 
ly; seem  lak  he  know  how  I'm  sufferin',  en  he  been 
comin'  over  often  en  talkin'  ter  me'n  Lewis.  Seem 
lak  he's  so  sad,  honey,  here  late.  Ain't  you  seed 
'im  yit,  honey?" 

"No,  he  hasn't  been  over,"  Helen  replied,  rather 
awkwardly.  "He  will  come,  though;  he  and  I  are 
good  friends." 

"You  gwine  find  'im  changed  er  lot,  honey,"  the 
old  woman  said.  "Do  you  know,  I  don't  believe 
he  ever  got  over  Marse  Albert's  death.  He  warn't 
ter  blame  'bout  dat,  honey,  dough  I  do  believe  he 
feel  dat  way.  Seem  lak  we  never  kin  fetch  up  Marse 
Albert's  name  widout  Marse  Carson  git  sad.  One 
night  here  late  when  Lewis  was  talkin'  'bout  when 
yo'  pa  went  off  en  fetched  young  master  home,  Marse 
Carson  hung  his  head  en  say :  '  Mam'  Lindy,  I  wish 
dat  time  could  be  go  over  ergin.  I  would  act  so 

48 


Mam'    Linda 

diffunt.  I  never  seed  whar  all  dem  scrapes  was  lead- 
in'  to.  But  it  learned  me  a  lesson,  Mam'  Lindy.' ' 

"That's  it,"  Helen  said,  bitterly,  as  if  to  herself; 
"he  survived.  He  has  profited  by  the  calamity, 
but  my  poor,  dear  brother —  She  went  no  further, 
for  her  voice  broke  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Don't  think  erbout  dat,  honey,"  old  Linda  said, 
consolingly.  "You  got  yo'  one  great  trouble  lak  I 
has,  but  you  is  at  home  wid  we  all  now,  en  you  must 
not  be  sad." 

"I  don't  intend  to  be,  Mammy,"  Helen  said, 
wiping  her  eyes  on  her  handkerchief.  "We  are 
going  to  try  to  do  something  to  keep  Pete  out  of 
trouble.  Father  thinks  it  is  his  associates  that  are 
to  blame.  We  must  try  in  future  to  keep  him  away 
from  bad  company." 

"  Dat  what  I  want  ter  do,  honey,"  the  old  woman 
said,  "en  ef  I  des  had  some  whar  ter  send  'im  so  he 
could  be  away  fum  dis  town  I'd  be  powerful  glad." 


VII 

IS  Helen  anticipated,  the  young  ladies 
of  the  town,  her  most  intimate  friends 
and  former  school-mates,  came  in  a 
body  that  afternoon  to  see  her.  The 
reception  formally  opened  in  the  great 
parlor  down-stairs,  but  it  was  not  many  minutes 
before  they  all  found  themselves  in  Helen's  chamber 
fluttering  about  and  chattering  like  doves  in  their 
spring  plumage. 

"  There's  no  use  putting  it  off  longer,"  Ida  Tarpley, 
Helen's  cousin,  laughed;  "they  are  all  bent  on  seeing 
your  things,  and  they  will  simply  spend  the  night 
here  if  you  don't  get  them  out." 

"Oh,  I  think  that  would  look  so  vain  and  silly 
in  me,"  Helen  protested,  her  color  rising.  "I  don't 
like  to  exhibit  my  wardrobe  as  if  I  were  a  dress- 
maker, or  a  society  woman  who  is  hard  up  and  trying 
to  dispose  of  them." 

"The  idea  of  your  not  doing  it,  dear,"  Mary  King, 
a  little  blonde,  said,  "when  not  one  of  us  has  seen  a 
decent  dress  or  hat  since  the  summer  visitors  went 
away  last  fall." 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  Ida  Tarpley  laughed.  "You 
girls  get  off  the  bed.  I  want  something  to  lay  them 
on.  If  it  were  only  evening  I'd  make  her  put  on 
that  gown  she  wore  at  the  Governor's  ball.  You 

50 


Mam'    Linda 

remember  what  the  Constitution's  society  reporter 
said  about  it.  He  said  it  was  a  poet's  dream.  If 
I  ever  get  one  it  will  be  in  a  dream.  You  must 
really  wear  it  to  your  dance,  Helen." 

"My  dance?"  Helen  said,  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  I  hope  I'm  not  telling  secrets,"  Ida  said; 
"but  I  met  Keith  Gordon  and  Bob  Smith  in  town 
as  I  came  on.  They  had  a  list  and  were  taking 
subscriptions  from  all  the  young  men.  They  had 
already  enough  put  down  to  buy  a  house  and  lot. 
They  say  they  are  going  to  give  you  the  swellest 
dance  that  was  ever  heard  of.  Bob  said  that  it 
simply  had  to  surpass  anything  you'd  been  to  in 
Augusta  or  Atlanta.  Expense  is  not  to  be  consid- 
ered. The  finest  band  in  Chattanooga  has  already 
been  engaged;  the  refreshments  are  to  be  brought 
from  there  by  a  caterer  and  a  dozen  expert  waiters. 
A  carload  of  flowers  have  been  ordered.  It  is  to 
open  with  a  grand  march."  Ida  swung  her  hands 
and  body  comically  to  and  fro  as  if  in  the  cake 
walk,  and  bowed  low.  "Nobody  is  to  be  allowed 
to  dance  with  you  who  hasn't  an  evening  suit  on, 
and  then  only  once.  They  are  all  crazy  about 
you,  Helen.  I  never  could  understand  it.  I've 
tried  to  copy  the  look  you  have  in  the  eyes  hun- 
dreds of  times,  but  it  won't  have  the  slightest 
effect." 

"There's  only  one  explanation  of  it,"  Miss  Wim- 
berley,  another  girl,  remarked;  "it  is  simply  because 
she  really  likes  them  all." 

"Well,  I  really  do,  as  for  that,"  Helen  said;  "and 
I  think  it  is  awfully  nice  of  them  to  give  me  such  a 
dance.  It's  enough  to  turn  a  girl's  head.  Well, 

51 


Mam'    Linda 

if  Ida  really  is  going  to  pull  out  my  things,  I'll  go 
down-stairs  and  make  you  a  lemonade." 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  young  ladies  had  all 
gone  except  Ida  Tarpley,  who  lingered  with  Helen  on 
the  veranda. 

"I'm  glad  the  girls  didn't  have  the  bad  taste  to 
embarrass  you  by  questioning  you  about  Mr.  San- 
ders," Ida  said.  "Of  course,  it  is  all  over  town. 
Uncle  spoke  of  the  possibility  of  it  to  some  one  and 
that  put  it  afloat.  I'm  anxious  to  see  him,  Helen. 
I  know  he  must  be  nice — everything,  in  fact,  that 
a  man  ought  to  be,  for  you  always  had  high 
ideals." 

Helen  flushed  almost  angrily,  and  she  drew  herself 
erect  and  stood  quite  rigid,  looking  at  her  cousin. 

"Ida,"  she  said,  "I  don't  like  what  you  have  just 
said." 

"Oh,  dearest,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  thought — " 

"That's  the  trouble  about  a  small  town,"  Helen 
went  on.  "  People  take  such  liberties  with  you,  and 
about  the  most  delicate  things.  Down  in  Augusta 
my  friends  never  would  think  of  saying  I  was  act- 
ually engaged  to  a  man  till  it  was  announced.  But 
here  at  home  it  is  in  every  mouth  before  they  have 
even  seen  the  gentleman  in  question." 

"  But  you  really  have  been  receiving  constant 
attentions  from  Mr.  Sanders  for  more  than  a  year, 
haven't  you,  dear?"  Miss  Tarpley  asked,  blandly. 

"Yes,  but  what  of  that?"  Helen  retorted.  "He 
and  I  are  splendid  friends.  He  has  been  very  kind 
and  thoughtful  of  my  comfort,  and  I  like  him.  He 
is  noble,  sincere,  and  good.  He  extended  the  sweet- 
est sympathy  to  me  when  I  went  down  there  under 

52 


Mam'    Linda 

my  great  grief,  and  I  never  can  forget  it,  but,  never- 
theless, Ida,  I  have  not  prornised  to  marry  him." 

"Oh,  I  see,  it  is  not  actually  settled  yet,"  Miss 
Tarpley  said.  "Well,  I'm  glad.  I'm  very,  very 
glad." 

"You  are  glad?"  Helen  said,  wonderingly. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I'm  glad  because  I  don't  want  you 
to  go  away  off  down  there  and  marry  a  stranger  to 
us.  I  really  hope  something  will  break  it  up.  I 
know  Mr.  Sanders  must  be  awfully  fond  of  you — 
any  man  would  be  who  had  a  ghost  of  a  chance  of 
winning  you — and  I  know  your  aunt  has  been  doing 
all  in  her  power  to  bring  the  match  about — but  I 
understand  you,  dear,  and  I  am  afraid  you  would 
not  be  happy." 

"Why  do  you  say  that  so — so  positively?"  Helen 
asked,  coldly. 

"  Because,"  Ida  said,  impulsively,  "  I  don't  believe 
a  girl  of  your  disposition  ever  could  love  in  the  right 
way  more  than  once,  and — 

"And  what?"  Helen  demanded,  her  proud  lips 
compressed,  her  eyes  flashing  defiantly. 

"Well,  I  may  be  wrong,  dear,"  Miss  Tarpley  went 
on,  "  but  if  you  were  not  actually  in  love  before  you 
went  to  Augusta,  you  were  very  near  it." 

"How  absurd!"  Helen  exclaimed,  with  a  little 
angry  toss  of  her  head. 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  our  set  drove  out 
to  the  Henderson  party?  I  went  with  Mr.  Garner 
and  Carson  D wight  took  you?  Oh,  Helen,  I  met 
you  and  Carson  walking  together  in  the  moon- 
light that  evening  under  the  apple-trees  in  the  old 
meadow,  and  if  ever  a  pair  of  human  beings  really 

53 


Mam'   Linda 

loved  each  other  you  two  must  have  done  so  that 
night.  I  saw  it  in  his  happy,  triumphant  face,  and 
in  the  fact,  Helen  dear,  that  you  allowed  him  to  be 
with  you  so  much,  when  you  knew  other  admirers 
were  waiting  to  see  you." 

Helen  looked  down ;  her  face  was  clouded  over,  her 
proud  lip  twitched. 

"Ida,"  she  said,  tremulously,  "I  don't  want  you 
ever  again  to  mention  Carson  D wight's  name  to  me 
in — in  that  way.  You  have  no  right  to." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  Ida  protested,  firmly.  "I  have 
the  right  as  a  loyal  friend  to  the  best,  most  suffering, 
and  noblest  young  man  I  ever  knew.  I  read  you 
like  a  book,  dear.  You  really  cared  very,  very  much 
for  Carson  once,  but  after  your  great  loss  you  never 
thought  the  same  of  him  again." 

"No,  nor  I  never  shall,"  Helen  said,  firmly.  "I 
admire  him  and  shall  treat  him  as  a  good  friend  when 
we  meet,  but  that  will  be  the  end  of  it.  Whether  I 
cared  for  him  or  not,  as  girls  care  for  young  men,  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  It  is  over  with." 

"And  all  simply  because  he  was  a  little  wild  at 
the  time  your  poor  brother — " 

"Stop!"  Helen  said;  "don't  argue  the  matter.  I 
can  only  now  associate  him  with  the  darkest  hour  of 
my  life.  I'm  tempted  to  tell  you  something,  Ida," 
and  Helen  bowed  her  head  for  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on  in  an  unsteady  voice.  "When  my  poor 
brother's  trunk  was  brought  home,  it  was  my  duty 
to  put  the  things  it  contained  in  order.  There  I 
found  some  letters  to  him,  and  one  dated  only  two 
days  before  Albert's  death  was  from — from  Carson 
Dwight.  I  read  only  a  portion  of  it,  but  it  revealed 

54 


Mam'  Linda 

a  page  in  poor  Albert's  life  that  I  had  never  read — 
never  dreamed  could  be  possible." 

"But  Carson,"  Ida  Tarpley  exclaimed;  "what  did 
he  have  to  do  with  that?" 

Helen  swallowed  the  lump  in  her  throat,  and  with  a 
cold,  steely  gleam  in  her  eyes  she  said,  bitterly: 

"  He  could  have  held  out  his  hand  with  the  superior 
strength  you  think  he  has  and  drawn  the  poor  boy 
back  from  the  brink,  but  he  didn't.  The  words  he 
wrote  about  it  were  light,  flippant,  and  heartless. 
He  treated  the  whole  awful  situation  as  a  joke,  as  if 
— as  if  he  himself  were  familiar  with  such  unmention- 
able things." 

"  Ah,  I  begin  to  understand  it  all  now!"  Ida  sighed. 
"That  letter,  coupled  with  Cousin  Albert's  awful 
death,  was  such  a  terrible  shock  that  you  cannot  feel 
the  same  towards  Carson.  But  oh,  Helen,  you 
would  pity  him  if  you  knew  him  now  as  I  do.  He 
has  never  altered  in  his  feelings  towards  you.  In 
fact,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  loves  you  even  more 
deeply  than  ever.  And,  dear,  if  you  had  seen  his 
patient  efforts  to  make  a  better  man  of  himself  you'd 
not  harbor  such  thoughts  against  him.  You  will 
understand  Carson  some  day,  but  it  may  then  be  too 
late.  I  don't  believe  a  woman  ever  has  a  real  sweet- 
heart but  once.  You  may  marry  the  man  your 
aunt  wants  you  to  take,  but  your  heart  will  some 
day  turn  back  to  the  other.  You  will  remember,  too, 
and  bitterly,  that  you  condemned  him  for  a  youthful 
fault  which  you  ought  to  have  pardoned." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Ida?"  Helen  asked,  her  soft, 
brown  eyes  averted. 

"Yes,  and  you'll  remember,  too,  that  while  his 

5  55 


Mam'    Linda 

other  friends  were  trying  to  help  him  stick  to  his 
resolutions  you  turned  against  him.  He's  going  to 
make  a  great  and  good  man,  Helen.  I ' ve  known  that 
for  some  time.  He  is  having  his  troubles,  but  even 
they  will  help  him  to  be  stronger  in  the  end.  His 
greatest  trial  is  going  on  right  now,  while  folks  are 
saying  that  you  are  going  to  marry  another  man. 
Pshaw!  you  may  say  what  you  like  about  Mr.  San- 
ders' good  qualities,  but  I  know  I  shall  not  like  him," 
concluded  Ida,  with  a  smile,  as  she  turned  to  go.  "  He 
is  a  usurper,  and  I'm  dead  against  him." 

Helen  remained  on  the  veranda  after  her  cousin 
had  left  till  the  twilight  gathered  about  her.  She 
was  about  to  go  in,  as  it  was  near  tea-time,  when  she 
heard  a  grumbling  voice  down  the  street  and  saw  old 
Uncle  Lewis  returning  from  town,  driving  his  son, 
the  troublesome  Peter,  before  him. 

"  You  go  right  thoo  dat  gate  on  back  ter  dat  house, 
you  black  imp  er  'straction!"  he  thundered,  "er  I'll 
tek  er  boa'd  en  lambast  de  life  out'n  you.  Here  it 
is  night-time  en  you  ain't  chop  no  stove-wood  fer 
de  big  house  kitchen,  en  been  lyin'  roun'  dem  cotton 
wagons  raisin'  mo'  rows  wid  dem  mountain  white 
men." 

"What's  the  matter,  Uncle  Lewis?"  Helen  asked, 
as  the  boy  sulkily  passed  round  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  the  old  man,  out  of  breath,  paused  at  the 
steps. 

"Oh,  Missy,  you  don't  know  what  me  'n'  Mam' 
Lindy  got  to  bear  up  under.  We  don't  know  how  ter 
manage  dat  boy.  Lindy  right  now  is  out'n  'er  head 
wid  worry.  Buck  Black  come  tol*  us  'bout  an  hour 
ago  dat  Pete  en  some  mo'  triflin*  niggers  was  down 

56 


Mam'    Linda 

at  de  warehouse  sassin'  some  mountain  white  men. 
Buck  heard  Pete  say  dat  Johnson  en  his  gang  couldn't 
whip  him  ergin  dout  gittin'  in  trouble,  en  dey  was  in 
er  inch  of  er  big  row  when  de  marshal  busted  it  up. 
Buck  ain't  no  fool,  fer  a  black  man,  Missy,  en  he  told 
me  'n'  Lindy  ef  we  don't  manage  ter  git  Pete  out'n  de 
company  he  keeps  dat  dem  white  men  will  sho  string 
'im  up." 

"Yes,  something  has  to  be  done,  that's  plain," 
said  Helen,  sympathetically.  "  I  know  Mam'  Linda 
must  be  worrying,  and  I'll  go  down  to  see  her  this 
evening.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  a  town  like 
this  is  best  for  a  boy  like  Pete.  I'll  speak  to  father 
about  it,  Uncle  Lewis.  It  won't  do  to  have  Mammy 
bothered  like  this.  It  will  kill  her.  She  is  not 
strong  enough  to  stand  it." 

" Oh,  Missy,"  the  old  man  said,  "  I  wish  you  would 
try  ter  do  some'n'.  Me  'n'  Lindy  is  sho  at  de  end  er 
our  rope." 

"Well,  I  promise  you  I'll  do  all  I  can,  Uncle 
Lewis,"  Helen  said,  and,  much  relieved,  the  old  negro 
trudged  homeward. 


VIII 

LOCAL  institution  in  which  "the  gang  " 
was  more  or  less  interested  was  known 
as  the  "Darley  Club."  It  occupied 
the  entire  upper  floor  of  a  considerable 
building  on  the  main  street,  and  had 
been  organized,  primarily,  by  the  older  married  men 
of  the  town  to  give  the  young  men  of  the  best  families 
a  better  meeting-place  than  the  bar-rooms  and  offices 
of  the  hotels.  At  first  the  older  men  looked  in  occa- 
sionally to  see  that  the  rather  rigid  rules  of  the  in- 
stitution were  being  kept.  But  men  of  middle-age 
and  past,  who  have  comfortable  firesides,  are  not 
fond  of  the  noisy  gatherings  of  their  original  proto- 
types, and  the  Club  was  soon  left  to  the  manage- 
ment of  the  permanent  president,  Mr.  Wade  Tingle, 
editor  of  the  Headlight. 

Wade  endeavored,  to  the  best  of  his  genial  nature, 
to  enforce  all  rules,  collect  all  dues,  and  impose  all 
fines,  but  he  wasn't  really  the  man  for  the  place. 
He  accepted  what  cash  was  handed  to  him,  trying 
to  remember  the  names  of  the  payers  and  amounts 
as  he  wrote  his  editorials,  political  notes,  and  social 
gossip,  ending  up  at  the  end  of  each  month  with  no 
money  at  all  to  pay  the  rent  or  the  wages  of  the 
negro  factotum.  However,  there  was  always  an 
outlet  from  this  embarrassment,  for  Wade  had  only 

$8 


Mam'    Linda 

to  draw  a  long  face  as  he  met  some  of  the  well-to-do 
stay-at-homes  and  say  that  "club  expenses  were 
somehow  running  short,"  and  without  question  the 
shortage  was  made  up.  Wade  had  tried  to  be  of- 
ficially stern,  too,  on  occasion.  Once  when  Keith 
Gordon  had  violated  what  Wade  termed  club  dis- 
cipline, not  to  say  club  etiquette,  Wade  threatened 
to  be  severe.  But  it  happened  to  be  a  point  upon 
which  there  was  a  division  of  opinion,  and  Keith  also 
belonged  to  "  the  gang."  It  had  happened  this  way : 
Keith  had  a  certain  corner  in  the  Club  reading-room 
where  he  was  wont  to  write  his  letters  of  an  even- 
ing, and  coming  down  after  supper  one  night  he  dis- 
covered that  the  attendant  had  locked  the  door  and 
gone  off  to  supper.  Keith  was  justly  angry.  He 
stood  at  the  door  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then,  being 
something  of  an  athlete,  he  stepped  back,  made  a 
run  the  width  of  the  sidewalk,  and  broke  the  lock, 
left  the  door  hanging  on  a  single  hinge,  and  went  up 
and  calmly  wrote  his  letters.  As  has  been  intimated, 
Wade  took  a  serious  view  of  this  violation  of  club 
dignity,  his  main  contention  being  that  Keith  ought 
to  have  the  lock  repaired  and  the  hinge  replaced. 
However,  Keith  just  as  firmly  stood  on  his  rights, 
his  contention  being  that  a  member  of  the  Club  in 
good  standing  could  not  be  withheld  from  his  rights 
by  the  mere  carelessness  of  a  negro  or  a  twenty-five 
cent  cast-iron  lock.  So  it  was  that,  in  commemora- 
tion of  the  incident,  the  door  remained  without  the 
lock  and  hinge  for  many  a  day. 

It  was  in  this  building  that  the  grand  ball  in  honor 
of  Helen  Warren's  home-coming  was  to  be  given. 
During  the  entire  preceding  day  Bob  Smith  and 

59 


Mam*    Linda 

Keith  Gordon  worked  like  happy  slaves.  The  floor 
had  been  roughened  by  roller-skating,  and  a  carpen- 
ter with  plane  and  sand -paper  was  smoothing  it, 
Bob  giving  it  its  finishing  touch  by  whittling  sperm 
candles  over  it  and  rubbing  in  the  shavings  with  the 
soles  of  his  shoes  as  he  pirouetted  about,  his  right 
arm  curved  around  an  imaginary  waist.  The 
billiard-tables  were  pushed  back  against  the  wall, 
the  ladies'  dressing-rooms  thoroughly  scoured  and 
put  in  order,  and  the  lamps  cleaned  and  trimmed. 
Keith  had  brought  down  from  his  home  some  fine 
oil-paintings,  and  these  were  hung  appropriately. 
But  Keith's  chef-d'&uvreof.  arrangement  and  decora- 
tion was  a  happy  inspiration,  and  he  was  enjoining 
it  on  the  initiated  ones  to  keep  it  as  a  surprise  for 
Helen.  He  had  once  heard  her  say  that  her  favorite 
flower  was  the  wild  daisy,  and  as  they  were  now  in 
bloom,  and  grew  in  profusion  in  the  fields  around  the 
town,  Keith  had  ordered  several  wagon-loads  of  them 
gathered,  and  now  the  walls  of  the  ballroom  were 
fairly  covered  with  them.  Graceful  festoons  of  the 
flowers  hung  from  the  ceiling,  draped  the  doorways, 
and  rose  in  beautiful  mounds  on  the  white-clothed 
refreshment-tables . 

As  a  special  favor  he  admitted  Carson  Dwight  in 
at  the  carefully  guarded  door  at  dusk  on  the  evening 
of  the  ball,  first  drawing  down  the  blinds  and  lighting 
the  candles  and  lamps  that  his  chum  might  have  the 
full  benefit  of  the  scene  as  it  would  strike  Helen  on 
her  arrival. 

"Isn't  that  simply  superb?"  he  asked.  "Do 
you  reckon  they  gave  her  anything  prettier  while 
she  was  down  there  ?  I  don't  believe  it,  Carson.  I 

60 


Mam'    Linda 

think  this  is  the  dandiest  room  a  girl  ever  tripped  a 
toe  in." 

"Yes,  it's  all  right,"  Dwight  said,  admiringly. 
"  It  is  really  great,  and  she  will  appreciate  it  keenly. 
She  is  that  way." 

"  I  think  so  myself,"  said  Keith.  "  I've  been  ner- 
vous all  day,  though,  old  man.  I've  been  watching 
every  train." 

"Afraid  the  band  wouldn't  come?"  asked  Dwight. 

"No,  those  coons  can  be  depended  on;  they  will 
be  down  in  full  force  with  the  best  figure-caller  in 
the  South.  No,  I  was  afraid,  though,  that  Helen 
might  have  written  to  that  Augusta  chump,  and 
that  he  would  come  up.  That  certainly  would  give 
the  thing  cold  feet." 

"Ah!"  Carson  exclaimed;  "I  see." 

"  The  dear  girl  wouldn't  rub  it  in  on  us  to  that  ex- 
tent, old  man,"  Keith  said.  "I  know  it  now.  She 
really  may  be  engaged  to  him,  and  she  may  not,  but 
she  knows  how  we  feel,  and  it's  bully  of  her  not  to 
invite  him.  It  would  really  have  been  a  wet  blanket 
to  the  whole  business.  We'd  have  to  treat  him 
decently,  as  a  visitor,  you  know,  but  I'd  rather  have 
taken  castor-oil  for  my  part  of  it.  All  the  gang  ex- 
cept you  were  over  to  see  her  Sunday  afternoon; 
why  didn't  you  go?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  live  only  next  door,  with  an  open 
gate  between,  and  I  thought  I'd  better  give  my  place 
to  you  fellows  who  don't  have  my  opportunity. 
I've  already  seen  her.  In  fact,  she  ran  over  to  see 
my  mother  yesterday." 

The  ball  was  in  full  swing  when  Carson  arrived 
that  night.  The  street  in  front  of  the  club  was 


Mam'   Linda 

crowded  with  carriages,  buggies,  and  livery-stable 
"hacks."  The  introductory  grand  march  was  in 
progress,  and  when  Carson  went  to  the  improvised 
dressing-room  in  charge  of  Skelt  to  check  his  hat 
he  found  Garner  standing  before  a  mirror  tugging  at 
the  lapels  of  an  evening  coat  and  trying  to  adjust  a 
necktie  which  kept  climbing  higher  than  it  should. 
Barley  was  just  at  the  point  in  its  post-bellum 
struggle  where  evening  dress  for  men  was  a  thing 
more  of  the  luxurious  past  than  the  stern  present, 
and  Dwight  readily  saw  that  his  partner  had  per- 
suaded himself  for  once  to  don  borrowed  plumage. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Carson  asked,  as  he  thrust 
his  hat-check  into  the  pocket  of  his  immaculate  white 
waistcoat. 

"Oh,  the  damn  thing  don't  fit!"  said  Garner,  in 
high  disgust.  "I  know  now  that  my  father  has  a 
hump,  or  did  have  when  he  ordered  this  suit  for  his 
wedding-trip.  The  tailor  who  designed  this  costeem 
de  swaray  tried  to  help  him  out,  but  he  has  trans- 
ferred the  hump  to  me  by  other  means  than  heredity. 
Look  how  the  back  of  it  sticks  out  from  my  neck!" 

"That's  because  you  twist  your  body  to  see  it  in 
the  glass,"  said  Carson,  consolingly.  "It's  not  so 
bad  when  you  stand  straight." 

"  It's  a  case  of  not  seeing  others  as  they  see  you, 
eh?"  Garner  said,  better  satisfied.  "I  haven't  taken 
a  chew  of  tobacco  to-night.  I  wouldn't  splotch  this 
shirt  for  the  world.  I  couldn't  spit  farther  than  an 
inch  with  this  collar  on,  anyway.  She's  holding  the 
reel  for  me.  I  can't  dance  anything  else,  but  I  can 
go  through  that  pretty  well  if  I  get  at  the  end  and 
watch  the  others.  You'd  better  hurry  up  and  see 

62 


Mam'    Linda 

her  card.     There  is  a  swell  gang  coming  on  the  ten- 
o'clock  train  from  Atlanta,  and  they  all  know  her." 

It  was  during  the  interval  following  the  third 
number  on  the  programme  that  Carson  met  Helen 
promenading  with  Keith  and  offered  her  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  simply  superb  ?"  she  said,  when  Keith 
had  bowed  himself  away  and  they  had  joined  the 
other  strollers  round  the  big,  flower-perfumed  room. 
"Carson,  really  I  actually  cried  for  joy  just  now  in 
the  dressing-room.  I  declare  I  never  want  to  go 
away  from  home  again.  I'll  never  have  such  de- 
voted friends  as  these." 

"  It  is  nice  of  you  to  look  at  it  that  way,  Helen," 
he  said,  "  after  the  gay  time  you  have  had  in  Augusta 
and  other  cities." 

"At  least  it  is  honest  and  sincere  here  at  home," 
she  answered,  "while  down  there  it  is — well,  full  of 
strife,  social  competition,  and  jealousies.  I  reallyj 
got  homesick  and  simply  had  to  come  back." 

"We  are  simply  delighted  to  have  you  again," 
he  said,  almost  fearing  to  look  upon  her,  for  in  her  ex- 
quisite evening  gown  and  the  proud  poise  of  her  head 
she  seemed  more  beautiful  and  imperious,  and  far- 
ther removed  from  his  hopes  than  he  had  thought 
her  even  in  the  darkest  hours  of  her  first  refusal  to 
condone  his  fatal  offence. 

She  was  looking  straight  into  his  eyes  with  a 
thoughtful,  questioning  stare,  when  she  said :  "  They 
all  seem  the  same,  Carson,  except  you.  Bob  Smith, 
Keith,  and  even  Mr.  Garner  are  just  like  I  left  them, 
but  somehow  you  are  altered.  You  look  so  much 
older,  so  much  more  serious.  Is  it  politics  that  is 
weighing  you  down — making  you  worry?" 


Mam'    Linda 

"Well,"  he  laughed,  evasively,  "politics  is  not  ex- 
actly the  easiest  game  in  the  world,  and  the  bare 
fear  that  I  may  not  succeed,  after  all,  is  enough  to 
make  a  fellow  of  my  temperament  worry.  It  seems 
to  be  my  last  throw  of  the  dice,  Helen.  My  father 
will  lose  all  faith  in  me  if  this  does  not  go  through." 

"Yes,  I  know  it  is  serious,"  the  girl  said.  "  Keith 
and  Mr.  Garner  have  talked  to  me  about  it.  They 
say  they  have  never  seen  you  so  much  absorbed  in 
anything  before.  You  really  must  win,  Carson — 
you  simply  must!" 

"  But  this  is  no  time  to  talk  over  sordid  politics," 
he  said,  with  a  smile.  "This  is  your  party  and  it 
must  be  made  delightful." 

"Oh,  I  have  my  worries,  too,"  she  said,  gravely. 
"I  felt  a  queer  twinge  of  conscience  to-night  when 
all  the  servants  came  to  see  me  before  I  left  home. 
They  were  ,all  so  happy  except  Mam'  Linda.  She 
tried  to  act  like  the  rest,  but,  Carson,  her  trouble 
about  that  worthless  boy  is  actually  killing  the  dear 
old  woman.  She  has  her  pride,  too,  and  it  has  been 
wounded  to  the  quick.  She  was  always  proud  of 
the  fact  that  my  father  never  had  whipped  one  of 
his  slaves.  I've  heard  her  boast  of  it  a  hundred 
times;  and  now  that  she  no  longer  belongs  to  us  in 
reality,  and  her  only  child  was  beaten  so  cruelly,  she 
simply  can't  get  over  it." 

"I  knew  she  felt  that  way,"  Dwight  said,  sym- 
pathetically. 

Helen's  hand  tightened  unconsciously  on  his  arm 
as  they  were  passing  by  the  corner  containing  the 
orchestra.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  Mam'  Linda 
told  me  that  of  all  the  people  who  had  been  to  see 

64 


Mam'    Linda 

her  since  then  that  you  had  been  the  kindest,  most 
thoughtful,  the  most  helpful  ?  Carson,  that  was  very, 
very  sweet  of  you." 

"I  was  only  electioneering,"  he  said,  with  a  flush. 
"  I  was  after  Uncle  Lewis's  vote  and  Mam'  Linda's 
influence." 

"No,  you  were  not,"  Helen  declared.  "It  was 
pure,  unadulterated  unselfishness  on  your  part. 
You  were  sorry  for  her  and  for  Uncle  Lewis  and  even 
Pete,  who  certainly  needed  punishment  of  some  sort 
for  the  way  he's  been  conducting  himself.  Yes,  it 
was  only  your  good  heart.  I  know  that,  for  several 
persons  have  told  me  you  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to 
let  the  affair  hamper  you  in  your  political  career. 
Oh,  I  know  all  about  what  your  opponent  is  saying, 
and  I  know  mountain  people  well  enough  to  know 
you  have  given  him  a  powerful  weapon.  They  are 
terribly  wrought  up  over  the  race  troubles,  and  it 
would  be  easy  enough  for  them  to  misunderstand 
your  exact  feeling.  Oh,  Carson,  you  must  not  let 
even  Mam'  Linda's  trouble  stand  between  you  and 
your  high  aim.  Taking  up  her  cause  will  perhaps 
not  do  a  bit  of  good,  for  no  one  person  can  solve  so 
vital  a  problem  as  that  is,  and  your  agitation  of  it 
may  wreck  your  last  hope." 

"I've  promised  to  keep  my  mouth  shut,  if  Dan 
Willis  and  men  of  his  sort  will  not  stay  right  at  my 
heels  with  their  threats.  My  campaign  managers — 
the  gang,  who  hold  a  daily  caucus  at  the  den  and  lay 
down  my  rules  of  conduct — have  exacted  that  much 
from  me  on  the  penalty  of  letting  me  go  by  the  board 
if  I  disobey." 

"  The  dear  boys !"  Helen  exclaimed.  "  I  like  every 

65 


Mam'    Linda 

one  of  them,  they  are  so  loyal  to  you.  The  close 
friendship  of  you  all  for  one  another  is  simply 
beautiful." 

"Coming  back  to  the  inevitable  Pete,"  Dwight 
remarked,  a  few  minutes  later.  "  I've  been  watching 
him  since  he  was  whipped,  and  I  know  he  is  in  great 
danger  of  getting  even  more  deeply  into  trouble.  He 
has  a  stupidly  resentful  disposition,  as  many  of  his 
race  have,  and  he  is  going  around  making  surly 
threats  about  Johnson,  Wiggin,  and  others.  If  he 
keeps  that  up  and  they  get  hold  of  it  he  will  certainly 
get  into  serious  trouble." 

"My  father  was  speaking  of  that  to-night,"  Helen 
said.  "  And  he  was  thinking  if  there  were  any  way 
of  getting  the  boy  away  from  his  idle  town  associ- 
ates that  it  might  prevent  trouble  and  ease  Mam' 
Linda's  mind." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that  the  other  day  when  I  saw 
Uncle  Lewis  searching  for  him  among  the  idle 
negroes,"  said  Carson;  "and  I  have  an  idea." 

"  Oh,  you  have  ?  What  is  it  ?"  Helen  asked,  eagerly. 

"Why,  Pete  always  has  seemed  to  like  me  and 
take  my  advice,  and  as  there  is,  plenty  of  work  on  my 
farm  for  such  a  hand  as  he  is  I  could  give  him  a  good 
place  and  wages  over  there  where  he'd  be  practically 
removed  from  his  present  associates." 

"Splendid,  splendid!"  Helen  cried;  "and  will  you 
do  it?" 

"Why,  certainly,  and  right  away,"  Carson  an- 
swered. "If  you  will  have  Mam'  Linda  send  him 
down  to  me  in  the  morning  I'll  give  him  some  in- 
structions and  a  good  sharp  talk,  and  I'll  make  my 
overseer  at  the  farm  put  him  to  work." 

66 


Mam'   Linda 

"Oh,  it  is  splendid!"  Helen  declared.  "It  will 
be  such  good  news  for  Mam'  Linda.  She'd  rather 
have  him  work  for  you  than  any  one  in  the  world." 

"There  comes  Wade  to  claim  his  dance,"  Dwight 
said,  suddenly;  "and  I  must  be  off." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  almost  re- 
gretfully. 

"To  the  office  to  work  on  political  business — 
dozens  and  dozens  of  letters  to  answer.  Then  I'm 
coming  back  for  my  waltz  with  you.  I  sha'n't  fail." 

And  as  he  put  on  his  hat  and  threaded  his  way 
through  the  whirling  mass  of  dancers  down  to  the 
street,  he  recalled  with  something  of  a  shock  that  not 
once  in  their  talk  had  he  even  thought  of  his  rival. 
He  slowed  up  in  the  darkness  and  leaned  against  a 
wall.  There  was  a  strange  sinking  of  his  heart  as  he 
faced  the  grim  reality  that  stretched  out  drearily 
before  him.  She  was,  no  doubt,  to  be  the  wife  of 
another  man.  He  had  lost  her.  She  was  not  for 
him,  though  there  in  the  glare  of  the  ballroom,  amid 
the  sensuous  strains  of  music,  in  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers  dying  in  her  service,  she  had  seemed  as  close 
to  him  in  heart,  soul,  and  sympathy  as  the  night  he 
and  she — 

He  had  reached  his  office,  a  little  one-story  brick 
building  in  the  row  of  lawyers'  offices  on  the  side 
street  leading  from  the  post-office  to  the  court- 
house, and  he  unlocked  the  door  and  went  in  and 
lighted  the  little  murky  lamp  on  his  desk  and  pulled 
down  a  package  of  unanswered  letters. 

Yes,  he  must  work — work  with  that  awful  pain  in 
his  breast,  the  dry,  tightening  sensation  in  his  throat, 
the  maddening  vision  of  her  dazzling  beauty  and 

67 


Mam'    Linda 

grace  and  sweetness  before  him.     He  dipped  his  pen, 
drew  the  paper  towards  him,  and  began  to  write: 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, — In  receiving  the  cordial  assurances  of 
your  support  in  the  campaign  before  me,  I  desire  to  thank 
you  most  heartily  and  to — " 

He  laid  the  pen  down  and  leaned  back.  "  I  can't 
do  it,  at  least  not  to-night,"  he  said.  "Not  while 
she  is  there  looking  like  that  and  with  my  waltz  to 
come,  and  yet  it  must  be  done.  I've  lost  her,  and  I 
am  only  making  it  harder  to  bear.  Yes,  I  must 
work — work!" 

The  pen  went  into  the  ink  again.  On  the  still  night 
air  came  the  strains  of  music,  the  mellow,  sing-song 
voice  of  the  figure-caller  in  the  "square"  dance,  the 
whir  and  patter  of  many  feet. 


IX 


[EAVING  Carson  Dwight,  Wade  Tingle, 
and  Bob  Smith  chatting  about  the  ball 
in  the  den  the  next  morning,  Garner 
went  to  the  office,  bit  off  a  chew  of 

I  tobacco,  and  plunged  into  work  with  a 

vigor  which  indicated  that  he  was  almost  ashamed 
of  his  departure  from  his  beaten  track  into  the  un- 
usual fields  of  social  gayety.  He  still  wore  the  up- 
right collar  and  white  necktie  of  the  night  before, 
but  the  hitherto  carefully  guarded  expanse  of  shirt- 
front  was  already  in  imminent  danger  of  losing  all 
that  had  once  recommended  it  as  a  presentable 
garment. 

With  his  small  hand  well  spread  over  the  page  of 
the  book  he  was  consulting,  he  had  become  oblivious 
to  his  surroundings  when  suddenly  a  man  stood  in 
the  doorway.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt  and  wore  a 
broad  -  brimmed  hat,  a  cotton  checked  shirt,  jean 
trousers  supported  by  a  raw-hide  belt,  and  a  pair 
of  tall  boots  which,  as  he  stood  fiercely  eying  Garner, 
he  angrily  lashed  with  his  riding- whip.  It  was  Dan 
Willis.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed  from  drink, 
and  his  eyes  had  the  glare  even  his  best  friends  had 
learned  to  fear  and  tried  to  avoid. 

"Whar's  that  thar  dude  pardner  o'  yourn?"  he 
asked. 

69 


Mam'   Linda 

"Oh,  you  mean  Dwight!"  Garner  had  had  too 
much  experience  in  the  handling  of  men  to  change 
countenance  over  any  sudden  turn  of  affairs,  either 
for  or  against  his  interests,  and  he  had,  also,  acquired 
admirable  skill  in  most  effective  temporizing.  "  Why, 
let  me  see,  Dan,"  he  went  on,  after  he  had  paused 
for  fully  a  moment,  carefully  inspected  the  lines  he 
was  reading,  frowned  as  if  not  quite  satisfied  there- 
with, and  then  slowly  turned  down  a  leaf.  "Let 
me  think.  Oh,  you  want  to  see  Carson !  Sit  down ; 
take  a  chair." 

"I  don't  want  to  set  down!"  Willis  thundered. 
"  I  want  to  see  that  damned  dude,  and  I  want  to  see 
him  right  off." 

"Oh,  that's  it!"  said  Garner.  "You  are  in  a 
hurry!"  And  then,  from  the  rigid  setting  of  his  jaw, 
it  was  plain  that  the  lawyer  had  decided  on  the  best 
mode  of  handling  the  specimen  glowering  down  upon 
him.  "Oh  yes,  I  remember  now,  Willis,  that  you 
were  loaded  up  a  few  nights  ago  looking  for  that  chap. 
Now,  advice  is  cheap — that  is,  the  sort  I'm  going  to 
give  you.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  I'd  charge 
a  fee  for  it.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  straddle  that  horse 
of  yours  and  get  out  of  this  town.  You  are  looking 
for  trouble — great,  big,  far-reaching  trouble." 

"  You  hit  the  nail  that  pop,  Bill  Garner,"  the  moun- 
taineer snorted.  "I'm  expectin'  to  git  trouble,  or 
give  trouble,  an'  I  hain't  goin'  to  lose  time  nuther. 
This  settlement  was  due  several  days  ago,  but  got 
put  off." 

"Look  here,  Willis  " — Garner  stood  up  facing  him 

"  you  may  not  be  a  fool,  but  you  are  acting  power- 
fully like  one.  You  are  letting  that  measly  little 

70 


Mam'   Linda 

candidate  for  the  legislature  make  a  cat's-paw  of 
you.  That's  what  you're  doing.  He  knows,  if  he 
can  get  up  a  shooting  -  scrap  between  you  and  my 
pardner  over  that  negro-whipping  business,  it  will 
turn  a  few  mountain  votes  his  way.  If  you  get 
shot,  Wiggin  will  have  more  charges  to  make ;  and  if 
Carson  was  to  get  the  worst  of  it,  the  boy  would  be 
clean  out  of  the  skunk's  way.  You  and  Wiggin  are 
both  in  bad  business." 

"Well,  that's  my  lookout!"  the  mountaineer 
growled,  beside  himself  in  rage.  "Carson  Dwight 
said  I  was  with  Johnson  the  night  the  gang  came  in 
and  whipped  them  coons,  and — " 

"Well,  you  were,'1  said  Garner,  as  suddenly  as  if 
he  were  browbeating  a  witness.  "  What's  the  use  to 
lie  about  it?" 

"Lie — you  say  I — ?" 

"I  said  I  didn't  want  you  to  lie  about  it,"  said 
Garner,  calmly.  "I  know  half  the  mob,  and  respect 
most  of  them.  I  have  an  idea  that  some  of  my  own 
kinsfolk  was  along  that  night.  They  thought  they 
were  doing  right  and  acting  in  the  best  interests  of 
the  community.  That's  neither  here  nor  there. 
The  men  that  were  licked  were  negroes,  and  most 
of  them  bad  ones  at  that,  but  when  a  big,  strapping 
man  of  your  stamp  comes  with  blood  in  his  eye  and 
a  hunk  of  metal  on  his  hip,  looking  for  the  son  of  an 
old  Confederate  soldier,  who  is  a  Democratic  candi- 
date for  the  legislature,  and  a  good  all-round  white 
citizen,  why,  I  say  that  is  the  time  to  call  a  halt,  and 
to  call  it  out  loud!  I  happen  to  know  a  few  of  the 
grand  jury,  and  if  there  is  trouble  of  a  serious  nature 
in  this  town  to-day,  I  can  personally  testify  to 
6  71 


Mam'   Linda 

enough  deliberation  in  your  voice  and  eye  this  morn- 
ing to  jerk  your  neck  out  of  joint." 

"What  the  hell  do  I  care  for  you  or  your  law?" 
Dan  Willis  snorted.  "It's  what  that  damned  dude 
said  about  me  that  he's  got  to  swallow,  and  if  he's  in 
this  town  I'll  find  him.  A  fellow  told  me  if  he 
wasn't  here  he'd  be  in  Keith  Gordon's  room.  I 
don't  know  whar  that  is,  but  I  kin  find  out." 

Turning  abruptly,  Willis  strode  out  into  the 
street  again. 

"The  devil  certainly  is  to  pay  now,"  Garner  said, 
with  his  deepest  frown  as  he  closed  the  law-book, 
thrust  it  back  into  its  dusty  niche  in  his  bookcase, 
and  put  on  his  hat.  "Carson  is  still  up  there  with 
those  boys,  and  that  fellow  may  find  him  any 
minute.  Carson  won't  take  back  a  thing.  He's  as 
mad  about  the  business  as  Willis  is.  I  wonder  if  I 
can  possibly  manage  to  keep  them  apart." 

On  his  way  to  the  den  he  met  Pole  Baker  standing 
on  the  corner  of  the  street  by  a  load  of  wood,  which 
Pole  had  brought  in  to  sell.  Hurriedly,  Garner  ex- 
plained the  situation,  ending  by  asking  the  farmer 
if  he  could  see  any  way  of  getting  Willis  out  of  town. 

"I  couldn't  work  him  myself,"  Baker  said,  "fer 
the  dern  skunk  hain't  any  more  use  fer  me  than  I 
have  fer  him,  but  I  reckon  I  kin  put  some  of  his  pals 
onto  the  job." 

"Well,  go  ahead,  Pole,"  Garner  urged.  "I'll  run 
up  to  the  room  and  try  to  detain  Carson.  For  all 
you  do,  don't  let  Willis  come  up  there." 

Garner  found  the  young  men  still  in  the  den  chat- 
ting about  the  ball  and  Carson's  campaign. 

Wade  Tingle  sat  at  the  table  with  several  sheets  of 

72 


Mam'    Linda 

paper  before  him,  upon  which,  in  a  big,  reporter's 
hand,  he  had  been  writing  a  glowing  account  of 
"the  greatest  social  event"  in  the  history  of  the 
town. 

"I've  got  a  corking  write-up,  Bill,"  he  said,  enthu- 
siastically. "I've  just  been  reading  it  to  the  gang. 
It  is  immense.  Miss  Helen  sent  me  a  full  memoran- 
dum of  what  the  girls  wore,  and,  for  a  green  hand,  I 
think  I  have  dressed  'em  up  all  right." 

"The  only  criticism  I  made  on  it,  Garner,"  spoke 
up  Keith  from  his  bed  in  the  corner,  where  he  lay 
fully  dressed,  "is  that  Wade  has  ended  all  of  Helen's 
descriptions  by  adding,  'and  diamonds.'  I'll  swear 
I'm  no  critic  of  style  in  writing,  but  that  eternal '  and 
diamonds,  and  diamonds,  and  diamonds,'  at  the  end 
of  every  paragraph,  sounds  so  monotonous  that  it 
gets  funny.  He  even  had  Miss  Sally  Ware's  plain 
black  outfit  tipped  off  with  '  and  diamonds. ' ' 

"Well,  I  look  at  it  this  way,  Bill,"  Wade  said, 
earnestly,  as  Garner  sat  down.  "Of  course,  the 
girls  who  had  them  on  would  not  like  to  see  them 
left  out,  for  they  are  nice  things  to  have,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  those  who  were  short  in  that  direc- 
tion would  feel  sorter  out  of  it." 

"I  think  if  he  had  just  written  'jewels'  once  in 
awhile,"  Keith  said,  "it  would  sound  all  right,  and 
leave  something  to  the  imagination." 

"That  might  help,"  Garner  said,  his  troubled 
glance  on  Carson's  rather  grave  face;  "but  see  that 
you  don't  write  it  'jewelry." 

"Well,  I'll  accept  the  amendment,"  Wade  said, 
as  he  began  to  scratch  his  manuscript  and  rewrite. 

Carson  D wight  stood  up.  "Did  you  leave  the 

73 


Mam'    Linda 

office  open?"  he  asked  Garner.     "I've  got  to  shape 
up  that  Holcolm  deed  and  consult  the  records." 

' '  Let  it  go  for  a  while.  I  want  to  look  it  over  first, ' ' 
Garner  said,  rather  suddenly.  "Sit  down.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  the  —  the  race.  You've  got 
a  ticklish  proposition  before  you,  old  boy,  and  I'd 
like  to  see  you  put  it  through." 

"Hear,  hear!"  cried  Keith,  sitting  up  on  the 
edge  of  his  bed.  "Balls  and  what  girls  wear  be- 
long to  the  regular  run  of  life,  but  when  the  chief 
of  the  gang  is  about  to  be  beaten  by  a  scoundrel 
who  will  hesitate  at  nothing,  it's  time  to  be  wide 
awake." 

"That's  it,"  said  Garner,  his  brow  ruffled,  his  ear 
open  to  sounds  without,  his  uneasy  eyes  on  the 
group  around  him.  And  for  several  minutes  he  held 
them  where  they  sat,  listening  to  his  wise  and 
observant  views  of  the  matter  in  hand.  Suddenly, 
while  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  remark,  a  foot-fall 
sounded  on  the  long  passage  without.  It  was  heavy, 
loud,  and  striding.  Garner  paused,  rose,  went  to  the 
bureau,  and  from  the  top  drawer  took  out  a  revol- 
ver he  always  kept  either  there  or  in  his  desk  at  the 
office.  There  was  a  firm  whiteness  about  his  lips 
which  was  new  to  his  friends. 

"Carson,"  he  said,  "have  you  got  your  gun?"  and 
he  stood  staring  at  the  doorway. 

A  shadow  fell  on  the  floor;  a  man  entered.  It 
was  Pole  Baker,  and  he  looked  around  him  in  sur- 
prise, his  inquiring  stare  on  Garner's  unwonted 
mien  and  revolver. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  Garner  exclaimed.  "Ah,  I 
thought—" 

74 


Mam'   Linda 

"  Yes,  I  come  to  tell  you  that —  Baker  hesitated, 
as  if  uncertain  whether  he  was  betraying  confidence, 
and  then  catching  Garner's  warning  glance,  he  said, 
non-committally :  "Say,  Bill,  that  feller  you  and  me 
was  talkin'  about  has  jest  gone  home.  I  reckon  you 
won't  get  yore  money  out  of  him  to-day." 

"Oh,  well,  it  was  a  small  matter,  anyway,  Pole," 
Garner  said,  in  a  tone  of  appreciative  relief,  as  he 
put  the  revolver  back  in  the  drawer  and  closed 
it.  "I'll  mention  it  to  him  the  next  time  he's  in 
town." 

"Say,  what  was  the  matter  with  you  just  now, 
Garner?"  Wade  Tingle  asked  over  the  top  of  his 
manuscript.  "  I  thought  you  were  going  to  ask 
Carson  to  fight  a  duel." 

But  with  his  hand  on  Dwight's  arm  Garner  was 
moving  to  the  door.  "Come  on,  let's  get  to  work," 
he  said,  with  a  deep  breath  and  a  grateful  side  glance 
at  Baker. 

In  front  of  the  office  one  of  Carson's  farm  wagons 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  mules  was  standing.  Tom  Hill- 
yer,  Carson's  overseer  and  general  manager,  sat  on 
the  seat,  and  behind  him  stood  Pete  Warren,  ready 
for  his  stay  in  the  country. 

"Miss  Helen's  made  quick  work  of  it,  I  see," 
Carson  remarked.  "She's  determined  to  get  that 
rascal  out  of  temptation." 

"You  ought  to  give  him  a  sharp  talking  to,"  said 
Garner.  "He's  got  entirely  too  much  lip  for  his 
own  good.  Skelt  told  me  this  morning  that  if 
Pete  doesn't  dry  up  some  of  that  gang  will  hang 
him  before  he  is  a  month  older.  He  doesn't  know 
any  better,  and  means  nothing  by  it,  but  he  has  al- 

75 


Mam'    Linda 

ready  made  open  threats  against  Johnson  and  Willis. 
You  understand  those  men  well  enough  to  know 
that  in  such  times  as  these  a  negro  can't  do  that  with 
impunity." 

"I  agree  with  you,  and  I'll  stop  and  speak  to  him 
now." 

When  Carson  came  in  and  sat  down  at  his  desk, 
a  few  moments  later,  Garner  looked  across  at  him 
and  smiled. 

"You  certainly  let  him  off  easy,"  he  said.  "I 
could  have  thrown  a  Christmas  turkey  down  the 
scamp's  throat  through  that  grin  of  his.  I  saw  you 
run  your  hand  in  your  pocket  and  knew  he  was 
bleeding  you." 

"Oh,  well,  I  reckon  I'm  a  failure  at  that  sort  of 
thing,"  Dwight  admitted,  with  a  sheepish  smile. 
"I  started  in  by  saying  that  he  must  not  be  so  fool- 
hardy as  to  make  open  threats  against  any  of  those 
men,  and  he  said:  'Looky  here,  Marse  Carson,  dem 
white  rapscallions  cut  gashes  in  my  body  deep 
enough  ter  plant  corn  in,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  ter 
love  'em  fer  it.  You  wouldn't,  you  know  you 
wouldn't.'  " 

"And  he  had  you  there,"  Garner  said,  grimly. 

"Well,  they  may  say  what  they  please  up  North 

about  our  great  problem,  but  nothing  but  time  and 

the  good  Lord  can  solve  it.     You  and  I  can  tell  that 

negro  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  from  sunup  till  sun- 

.down,  but  I  happen  to  know  that  he  had  a  remote 

\vhite  ancestor  that  was  the  proudest,  hardest  fighter 

ihat  ever  swung  a  sword.     Some  of  the  rampant 

agitators  say  that  deportation  is  the  only  solution. 

Huh!  if  you  deported  a  lot  of  full-blood  blacks  along 

76 


Mam'    Linda 

with  such  chaps  as  this  one,  it  would  be  only  a  short 
time  before  the  yellow  ones  would  have  the  rest  in 
bondage,  and  so  history  would  be  going  backward 
instead  of  forward.  I  guess  it's  going  forward  right 
now  if  we  only  had  the  patience  to  see  it  that  way." 


NE  beautiful  morning  near  the  first  of 
June,  as  Carson  was  strolling  on  the 
upper  veranda   at  home,   waiting  for 
the  breakfast-bell,  Keith  Gordon  came 
by  on  his  horse  on  his  way  to  town. 
"Heard  the  news?"  he  called  out,  as  he  reined  in 
at  the  gate  and  leaned  on  the  neck  of  his  mount. 

"No;  what's  up?"  Carson  asked,  and  as  he  spoke 
he  saw  Helen  Warren  emerge  from  the  front  door  of 
her  father's  house  and  step  down  among  the  dew- wet 
rose-bushes  that  bordered  the  brick  walk. 

"Horrible  enough  in  all  reason,"  Keith  replied. 
"  There's  been  a  cold-blooded  murder  over  near  your 
farm.  Abe  Johnson,  who  led  that  mob,  you  know, 
and  his  wife  were  killed  by  some  negro  with  an  axe. 
The  whole  country  is  up  in  arms  and  crazy  with 
excitement." 

"Wait,  I'll  come  right  down,"  Carson  said,  and  he 
disappeared  into  the  house.  And  when  he  came  out 
a  moment  later  he  found  Helen  on  the  sidewalk 
talking  to  Keith,  and  from  her  grave  face  he  knew 
she  had  overheard  what  had  been  said. 

"Isn't  it  awful?"  she  said  to  Carson,  as  he  came 
out  at  the  gate.  "Of  course,  it  is  the  continuation 
of  the  trouble  here  in  town." 

"How  do  they  know  a  negro  did  it ?"  Carson  asked, 

78 


Mam'    Linda 

obeying  the  natural  tendency  of  a  lawyer  to  get  at 
the  facts. 

"  It  seems,"  answered  Gordon,  "that  Mrs.  Johnson 
lived  barely  long  enough  after  the  neighbors  got 
there  to  say  that  it  was  done  by  a  mulatto,  as  well  as 
she  could  see  in  the  darkness.  In  their  fury,  the 
people  are  roughly  handling  every  yellow  negro  in 
the  neighborhood.  They  say  the  darkies  are  all 
hiding  out  in  the  woods  and  mountains." 

Then  the  conversation  paused,  for  old  Uncle  Lewis, 
who  was  at  work  with  a  pair  of  garden- shears  behind 
some  rose-bushes  close  by,  uttered  a  groan  and,  wide- 
eyed  and  startled,  came  towards  them. 

"It's  awful,  awful,  awful!"  they  heard  him  say. 
"Oh,  my  Gawd,  have  mercy!" 

"Why,  Uncle  Lewis,  what's  the  matter?"  Helen 
asked,  in  sudden  concern  and  wonder  over  his 
manner  and  tone. 

"Oh,  missy,  missy!"  he  groaned,  as  he  shook  his 
head  despondently.  "  My  boy  over  dar  'mongst  'em 
right  now.  Oh,  my  Lawd!  I  know  what  dem  white 
folks  gwine  ter  say  fust  thing,  kase  Pete  didn't  had 
no  mo'  sense  'an  ter — " 

"Stop,  Lewis!"  Carson  said,  sharply.  "Don't  be 
the  first  to  implicate  your  own  son  in  a  matter  as 
serious  as  this  is." 

"I  ain't,  marster!"  the  old  man  groaned,  "but  I 
know  dem  white  folks  done  it  'fo'  dis." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  right,  Lewis,"  Keith  said, 
sympathetically.  ' '  He  may  be  absolutely  innocent, 
but,  since  his  trouble  with  that  mob,  Pete  has  really 
talked  too  much.  Well,  I  must  be  going." 

As  Keith  was  riding  away,  old  Lewis,  muttering 

79 


Mam'    Linda 

softly  to  himself  and  groaning,  turned  towards  the 
house. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Helen  called  out,  as  she 
still  lingered  beside  Carson. 

"I'm  gwine  try  to  keep  Linda  fum  hearin'  it  right 
now,"  he  said.  "Ef  Pete  git  in  it,  missy,  it  gwine 
ter  kill  yo'  old  mammy." 

"I'm  afraid  it  will,"  Helen  said.  "Do  what  you 
can,  Uncle  Lewis.  I  '11  be  down  to  see  her  in  a  moment. ' ' 

As  the  old  man  tottered  away,  Helen  looked  up 
and  caught  Carson's  troubled  glance. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  man,"  she  said. 

"Why?"  he  inquired. 

"Because  I'd  take  a  strong  stand  here  in  the 
South  for  law  and  order  at  any  cost.  We  have  a 
good  example  in  this  very  thing  of  what  our  condi- 
tion means.  Pete  may  be  innocent,  and  no  doubt  is, 
for  I  don't  believe  he  would  do  a  thing  like  that  no 
matter  what  the  provocation,  and  yet  he  hasn't  any 
sort  of  chance  to  prove  it." 

"You  are  right,"  Carson  said.  "At  such  a  time 
they  would  lynch  him,  if  for  nothing  else  than  that 
he  had  dared  to  threaten  the  murdered  man." 

"Poor,  poor  old  mammy!"  sighed  Helen.  "Oh, 
it  is  awful  to  think  of  what  she  will  suffer  if — if — 
Carson,  do  you  really  think  Pete  is  in  actual  danger  ?" 

Dwight  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  met 
her  stare  frankly. 

"We  may  as  well  face  the  truth  and  be  done  with 
it,"  he  said.  "  No  negro  will  be  safe  over  there  now, 
and  Pete,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  least  of  all." 

"  If  he  is  guilty  he  may  run  away,"  she  said,  short- 
sightedly. 

80 


Mam'    Linda 

"If  he's  guilty  we  don't  want  him  to  get  away," 
Carson  said,  firmly.  "But  I  really  don't  think  he 
had  anything  to  do  with  it." 

Helen  sighed.  They  had  stepped  back  to  the 
open  gate,  and  there  they  paused  side  by  side.  "How 
discouraging  life  is!"  she  said.  "Carson, in  planning 
to  get  Pete  over  there,  you  and  I  were  acting  on  our 
purest,  noblest  impulses,  and  yet  the  outcome  of  our 
efforts  may  be  the  gravest  disaster." 

"Yes,  it  seems  that  way,"  he  responded,  gloomily; 
"but  we  must  try  to  look  on  the  bright  side  and  hope 
for  the  best." 

On  parting  with  Helen,  Carson  went  into  the  big, 
old-fashioned  dining-room,  and  after  hurriedly  drink- 
ing a  cup  of  coffee  he  went  down  to  his  office.  Along 
the  main  thoroughfare,  on  the  street  corners,  and  in 
front  of  the  stores  he  found  little  groups  of  men  with 
grave  faces,  all  discussing  the  tragedy.  More  than 
once  in  passing  he  heard  Pete's  name  mentioned, 
and  for  fear  of  being  questioned  as  to  what  he  thought 
about  it  he  hurried  on.  Garner  was  an  early  riser, 
and  he  found  him  at  his  desk  writing  letters. 

"Well,  from  all  accounts,"  Garner  said,  "your 
man  Friday  seems  to  be  in  a  ticklish  place  over  there, 
innocent  or  not — that  is,  if  he  hasn't  had  the  sense 
to  skip  out." 

"Somehow,  I  don't  think  Pete  is  guilty,"  Carson 
said,  as  he  sank  into  his  big  chair.  "He's  not  that 
stamp  of  negro." 

"Well,  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  on  that  score," 
the  other  remarked.  "Up  to  the  time  he  left  here 
he  seemed  really  harmless  enough,  but  we  don't 
know  what  may  have  taken  place  since  then  between 

81 


Mam'   Linda 

him  and  Johnson.  Funny  we  didn't  think  of  the 
danger  of  sticking  match  to  tinder  like  that.  I 
admit  I  was  in  favor  of  sending  him.  Miss  Helen 
was  so  pleased  over  it,  too.  I  met  her  the  other  day 
at  the  post-office  and  she  was  telling  me,  with  ab- 
solute delight,  that  Pete  was  doing  well  over  there, 
working  like  an  old-time  cornfield  darky,  and  be- 
having himself.  Now,  I  suppose,  she  will  be  terribly 
upset." 

Carson  sighed.     "We  blame  the  mountain  people, 

\in  times  of  excitement,  for  acting  rashly,  and  yet 

\right  here  in  this  quiet  town  half  the  citizens  have 

already  made  up  their  minds  that  Pete  committed 

jthe  crime.     Think  of  it,  Garner!" 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  pretty  hard  to  imagine  who 
else  did  it,"  Garner  declared. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  disputed  Carson,  warm- 
ly; "when  there  are  half  a  dozen  negroes  who  were 
whipped  just  as  Pete  was  and  who  have  horrible 
characters.  There's  Sam  Dudlow,  the  worst  negro 
I  ever  saw,  an  ex-convict,  and  as  full  of  devilment  as 
an  egg  is  of  meat.  I  saw  his  scowling  face  the  next 
day  after  he  was  whipped,  and  I  never  want  to  see 
it  again.  I'd  hate  to  meet  him  in  the  dark,  unarmed. 
He  wasn't  making  open  threats,  as  Pete  was,  but  I'll 
bet  he  would  have  handled  Johnson  or  Willis  roughly 
if  he  had  met  either  of  them  alone  and  got  the  a  1- 
vantage." 

"Well,  we  are  not  trying  the  case,"  Garner  said, 
dryly ;  "  if  we  are,  I  don't  know  where  the  fees  are  tD 
come  from.  Getting  money  out  of  an  imaginary 
case  is  too  much  like  a  lawyer's  first  year  under  the 
shadow  of  his  shingle." 

82 


XI 


PMMEDIATELY  on  parting  with  Carson, 
Helen  went  down  to  Linda's  cottage. 
Lewis  was  leaning  over  the  little,  low 
fence  talking  to  a  negro,  who  walked 
on  as  she  drew  near. 
"Where  is  Mam'  Linda?"  she  asked,  guardedly. 
"  In  de  house,  missy,"  Lewis  answered,  pulling  off 
his  old  slouch  hat  and  wadding  it  tightly  in  his 
ringers.  "She  'ain't  heard  nothin'  yit.  Jim  was  des 
tellin'  me  er  whole  string  er  talk  folks  was  havin' 
down  on  de  street ;  but  I  told  'im  not  to  let  'er  hear 
it.  Oh,  missy,  it  gwine  ter  kill  'er.  She  cayn't 
stan'  it.  Des  no  longer  'n  las'  night  she  was  settin' 
in  dat  do'  talkin'  'bout  how  happy  she  was  to  hear 
Pete  was  doin'  so  well  over  on  Marse  Carson's  place. 
She  said  she  never  would  forget  young  marster's 
kindness  to  er  old  nigger  'oman,  en  now  " — the  old 
man  spread  out  his  hands  in  apathetic  gesture  be- 
fore him — "now  you  see  what  it  come  to!" 

"But  nothing  serious  has  really  happened  to  Pete 
yet,"  Helen  had  started  to  say,  when  the  old  man 
stopped  her. 

"Hush,  honey,  she  comin'!" 
There  was  a  sound  of  a  footstep  in  the  cottage. 
Linda  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  with  a  clouded 
face  and  disturbed  manner  invited  her  mistress  into 

83 


Mam'    Linda 

the  cottage,  placing  a  chair  for  the  young  lady,  and 
dusting  the  bottom  of  it  with  her  apron. 

"How  do  you  feel  this  morning,  mammy?"  Helen 
asked,  as  she  sat  down. 

"I'm  well  ernough  in  my  body,  honey" — the  old 
woman's  face  was  averted — "but  dat  ain't  all  ter  a 
pusson  in  dis  life.  Ef  des  my  body  was  all  I  had,  I 
wouldn't  be  so  bad  off,  but  it's  my  mind,  honey. 
I'm  worried  'bout  dat  boy  ergin.  I  had  bad  dreams 
las'  night,  en  thoo  'em  all  he  seemed  ter  be  in  some 
trouble.  Den  when  I  woke  dis  mawnin*  en  tried  ter 
think  'twas  only  des  er  dream,  I  ain't  satisfied  wid 
de  way  all  of  um  act.  Lewis  look  quar  out'n  de 
eyes,  en  everybody  dat  pass  erlong  hatter  stop  en 
lead  Lewis  off  down  de  fence  ter  talk.  I  ain't  no 
fool,  honey !  I  notice  things  when  dey  ain't  natcherl. 
Den  here  you  come  'fo'  yo'  breakfust-time.  I've 
watched  you,  chile,  sence  you  was  in  de  cradle  en 
know  every  bat  er  yo'  sweet  eyes.  Oh,  honey" — 
Linda  suddenly  sat  down  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  pressing  them  firmly  in — "honey,"  she 
muttered, ' '  suppen's  done  gone  wrong.  I  Ve  knowed 
it  all  dis  mawnin'  en  I'm  actually  afeard  ter  ax  you- 
all  ter  tell  me.  I — can't  think  of  but  one  thing,  I'm 
so  muddled  up,  en  dat  is  dat  my  boy  done  thowed 
up  his  work  en  gone  away  off  somers  wid  bad  com- 
pany; en  yit,  honey" — she  now  rocked  herself  back 
and  forth  as  if  in  torture  and  finished  with  a  steady 
stare  into  Helen's  face — "dat  cayn't  be  it.  Dat 
ain't  bad  ernough  ter  mek  Lewis  act  like  he  is,  en — 
en — well,  honey,  you  might  es  well  come  out  wid  it. 
I've  had  trouble,  en  I  kin  have  mo'." 

Helen  sat  pale  and  undecided,  unable  to  formulate 
84 


Mam'    Linda 

any  adequate  plan  of  procedure.  At  this  juncture 
Lewis  leaned  in  the  doorway,  and,  as  his  wife's  back 
was  towards  him,  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"I  want  ter  step  down- town  er  minute,  Lindy," 
he  said.  "I'll  be  right  back.  I  des  want  ter  go  ter 
de  sto'.  We're  out  er  coffee,  en — " 

Linda  suddenly  turned  her  dark,  agonized  face 
upon  him.  "You  are  not  goin'  till  you  tell  me  what 
is  gone  wrong  wid  my  child,"  she  said.  "What  de 
matter  wid  Pete,  Lewis?" 

The  old  man's  surprised  glance  wavered  between 
his  wife's  face  and  Helen's.  "Why,  Lindy,  who 
say — "  he  feebly  began. 

But  she  stopped  him  with  a  gesture  at  once  impa- 
tient and  full  of  fear.  "Tell  me!"  she  said,  firmly — 
"tell  me!" 

Lewis  shambled  into  the  cottage  and  stood  over 
her,  a  magnificent  specimen  of  the  manhood  of  his 
race.  Helen's  eyes  were  blinded  by  tears  she  could 
not  restrain. 

'  'Tain't  nothin',  Lindy,  'pon  my  word  'tain't 
nothin'  but  dis,"  he  said,  gently.  "Dar's  been 
trouble  over  near  Marse  Carson's  farm,  but  not  one 
soul  is  done  say  Pete  was  in  it — not  one  soul." 

"What  sort  o'  trouble?"  Linda  pursued. 

' '  Er  man  en  his  wife  was  killed  over  dar  in  baid 
last  night." 

"What  man  en  woman?"  Linda  asked,  her  mouth 
falling  open  in  suspense,  her  thick  lip  hanging. 

"Abe  Johnson  en  his  wife." 

Linda  leaned  forward,  her  hands  locked  like  things 
of  iron  between  her  knees.  "Who  done  it,  Lewis ? — 
who  killed  um  ?"  she  gasped. 

85 


Mam'   Linda 

"Nobody  knows  dat  yit,  Lindy.  Mrs.  Johnson 
lived  er  little  while  after  de  neighbors  come,  en  she 
said  it  was  er — she  said  it  was  er  yaller  nigger,  en — 
en — "  He  went  no  further,  being  at  the  end  of  his 
diplomacy,  and  simply  stood  before  her  helplessly 
twisting  his  hat  in  his  hands.  The  room  was  very 
still.  Helen  wondered  if  her  .own  heart  had  stopped 
beating,  so  tense  and  strained  was  her  emotion. 
Linda  sat  bent  forward  for  a  moment ;  they  saw  her 
raise  her  hands  to  her  head,  press  them  there  con- 
vulsively, and  then  she  groaned. 

"Miz  Johnson  say  it  was  a  yaller  nigger!"  she 
moaned .  ' '  Oh ,  my  Gawd ! ' ' 

"Yes,  but  what  dat,  'oman?"  Lewis  demanded  in 
assumed  sharpness  of  tone.  "Bar's  oodlin's  en 
oodlin's  er  yaller  niggers  over  dar." 

"Dey  ain't  none  of  'em  been  whipped  by  de  daid 
man,  'cepin'  my  boy."  Linda  was  now  staring 
straight  at  him.  "None  of  'em  never  made  no 
threats  but  Pete.  Dey '11  kill 'im — "  She  shuddered 
and  her  voice  fell  away  into  a  prolonged  sob.  ' '  You 
hear  me  ?  Dey'll  hang  my  po'  baby  boy — hang  'im 
— hang  'im!" 

Linda  suddenly  rose  to  her  full  height  and  stood 
glowering  upon  them,  her  face  dark  and  full  of  pas- 
sion and  grief  combined.  She  raised  her  hands  and 
held  them  straight  upward. 

"I  want  ter  curse  Gawd!"  she  cried.  "You  hear 
me  ?  I  ain't  done  no  thin'  ter  deserve  dis  here  thing 
I've  been  er  patient  slave  of  white  folks,  en  my 
mammy  an'  daddy  was  'fo'  me.  I've  acted  right  en 
done  my  duty  ter  dem  what  owned  me,  en — en  now 
I  face  dis.  I  hear  my  cnliest  child  beggin'  fer  urn  to 

86 


Mam'   Linda 

spare  'im  en  listen  ter  'im.  I  hear  'im  beggin'  ter 
see  his  old  mammy  'fo'  dey  kill  'im.  I  see  'em  drag- 
gin'  'im  off  wid  er  rope  roun' — "  With  a  shriek  the 
woman  fell  face  downward  on  the  floor.  As  if  under 
the  influence  of  a  terrible  nightmare,  Helen  bent  over 
her.  She  was  insensible.  Without  a  word,  Lewis 
lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  bore  her  to  a  bed  in  the 
corner. 

"Dis  gwine  ter  kill  yo'  old  mammy,  honey,"  he 
gulped.  ' '  She  ain't  never  gwine  ter  git  up  fum  under 
it — never  in  dis  world." 

But  Helen,  with  womanly  presence  of  mind,  had 
dampened  her  handkerchief  in  some  water  and  was 
gently  stroking  the  dark  face  with  it.  After  a  mo- 
ment Linda  drew  a  deep,  lingering  breath  and 
opened  her  eyes. 

"Lewis,"  was  her  first  thought,  "go  try  en  find 
out  all  you  kin.  I'm  gwine  lie  here  en  pray  Gawd 
ter  be  merciful.  I  said  I'd  curse  'Im,  but  I  won't. 
He  my  mainstay.  I  got  ter  trust  'Im.  Ef  He  fail 
me  I'm  lost.  Oh,  honey,  yo'  old  mammy  never 
axed  you  many  favors;  stay  here  wid  'er  en  pray — 
pray  wid  all  yo'  might  ter  let  dis  cup  pass.  Oh, 
Gawd,  don't  let  'em! — don't  let  'em!  De  po'  boy 
didn't  do  it.  He  wouldn't  harm  a  kitten.  He  talked 
too  much,  case  he  was  smartin'  under  his  whippin', 
but  dat  was  all!" 

Motioning  to  Lewis  to  leave  them  alone,  Helen 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  put  her  arm 
round  Linda's  shoulders,  but  the  old  woman  rose 
and  went  to  the  door  and  closed  it,  then  she  came 
back  and  stood  by  Helen  in  the  half-darkness  that 
now  filled  the  room. 

87 


Mam'   Linda 

"  I  want  you  ter  git  down  here  by  my  baid  en  pray 
fer  me,  honey,"  she  said.  "Seem  ter  me  lak  de 
Lawd  always  have  listen  ter  white  folks  mo'  den  de 
black,  anyway,  en  I  want  you  ter  beg  'Im  ter  spare 
po'  liT  foolish  Pete  des  dis  time— des  dis  once." 

Kneeling  by  the  bed,  Helen  covered  her  wet  face 
with  her  hands.  Linda  knelt  beside  her,  and  Helen 
prayed  aloud,  her  clear,  sweet  voice  ringing  through 
the  still  room. 


XII 

IN  Carson  Dwight's  farm,  as  the  place 
was  not  particularly  well  kept,  the 
negro  hands  lived  in  dismantled  log- 
cabins  scattered  here  and  there  about 
the  fields,  or  in  the  edge  of  the  woods 
surrounding  the  place.  In  one  of  these,  at  the  over- 
seer's suggestion,  Pete  had  installed  himself,  his 
household  effects  consisting  only  of  a  straw  mat- 
tress thrown  on  the  puncheon  floor  and  a  few  cook- 
ing utensils  for  use  over  the  big  fireplace  of  the  mud- 
and-log  chimney. 

Here  he  was  sleeping  on  the  night  of  the  tragedy 
which  had  stirred  the  country-side  into  a  white  heat 
of  race  hatred.  He  had  spent  the  first  half  of  the 
night  at  a  negro  dance,  two  miles  away,  at  a  farm, 
and  was  much  elated  by  finding  that  he  had  at- 
tracted marked  attention  and  feminine  favor,  which 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  looked  upon  by  the 
country  blacks  as  something  out  of  the  usual  run — 
a  town  darky  with  a  glib  tongue  and  many  other 
accomplishments,  and  a  negro,  too,  as  Pete  assured 
them,  who  stood  high  in  the  favor  of  his  master,  whose 
name  carried  weight  wherever  it  was  mentioned. 

Shortly  after  dawn  Pete  was  still  sleeping  soundly, 
as  was  his  habit  after  a  night  of  pleasure,  when  his 
door  was  rudely  shaken. 

89 


Mam'   Linda 

"Pete  Warren!  Pete  Warren!"  a  voice  called  out 
sharply.  "Wake  up  in  dar;  wake  up,  I  tell  you!" 

There  was  no  response  —  no  sound  came  from 
within  the  cabin  except  the  deep  respiration  of  the 
sleeper.  The  door  was  shaken  again,  and  then,  as 
it  was  not  locked,  and  slightly  ajar,  the  little  old 
negro  man  on  the  outside  pushed  the  shutter  open 
and  entered,  stalking  across  the  floor  to  where  Pete 
lay. 

"Wake  up  here,  you  fool!"  he  said,  as  he  bent  and 
shook  Pete  roughly.  "Wake  up,  ef  you  know  what 
good  fer  you." 

Pete  turned  over;  his  snoring  broke  into  little 
gasps.  He  opened  his  eyes,  stared  inquiringly  for 
an  instant,  and  then  his  eyelids  began  to  close 
drowsily. 

"Looky  here!"  He  was  roughly  handled  again  by 
the  black  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "You  young  fool, 
you  dance  all  night  till  you  cayn't  keep  yo'  eyes  open 
in  de  day-time,  but  ef  you  don't  git  er  move  on  you 
en  light  out  er  dis  cabin  you'll  dance  yo'  last  jig  wid 
nothin'  under  yo'  feet  but  wind.  It  11  be  er  game  er 
frog  in  de  middle  en  you  be  de  frog. " 

"What  dat?  —  what  dat  you  givin'  me,  Uncle 
Richmond?"  Pete  was  now  awake  and  sitting  bolt 
upright  on  the  mattress. 

"Huh,  I  come  ter  tell  you,  boy,  dat  you  'bout  ter 
git  in  trouble,  en,  fer  all  I  know,  de  biggest  you  ever 
had  in  all  yo'  bo'n  days." 

"Huh,  you  say  I  is,  Uncle  Richmond?"  Pete  ex- 
claimed, incredulously.  "What  wrong  wid  me?" 

The  old  man  stepped  back  till  he  could  look 
through  the  cabin  door  over  the  fields  upon  which 

90 


Mam'    Linda 

the  first  streaks  of  daylight  were  falling  in  grayish, 
misty  splotches. 

"Pete,"  he  said,  "somebody  done  slip  in  Abe 
Johnson's  house  en  brain  him  en  his  wife  wid  er 
axe." 

"Huh,  you  don't  say!"  Pete  stared  in  sleepy 
astonishment.  "When  dat  happen,  Uncle  Rich- 
mond?" 

"Las'  night,  er  towards  mawnin',"  the  old  man 
said.  "Ham  Black  come  en  tol'  me.  He  say  we 
better  all  hide  out;  it  gwine  ter  be  de  biggest  'cite- 
ment  ever  heard  of  in  dese  mountains;  but,  Pete, 
you  de  main  one  ter  look  out — you,  you!" 

"  Me!    Huh,  what  you  say  dat  f er,  Uncle  Rich'  ?" 

"  'Ca'se  dey  gwine  ter  look  fer  you  de  fus  one,  Pete. 
You  sho  is  been  talkin'  too  much  out  yo'  mouf  'bout 
dat  whippin'  Johnson  done  give  you  en  Sam  Dudlow, 
en  de  res'  um  in  town  dat  night.  Ham  tol'  me  ter 
come  warn  you  ter  hide  out,  en  dat  quick.  Ham  say 
he  know  in  reason  you  didn't  do  it,  'ca'se,  he  say,  yo' 
bark  is  wuss'n  yo'  bite.  Ham  say  he  bet  'twas  done 
by  some  nigger  dat  didn't  talk  so  much.  Ham  say 
he  mighty  nigh  sho  Sam  Dudlow  done  it,  'ca'se  Sam 
met  Abe  Johnson  in  de  big  road  yisterday  en  John- 
son cussed  'im  en  lashed  at  'im  wid  er  whip.  Ham 
say  dat  nigger  come  on  ter  de  sto'  lookin'  lak  er 
devil  in  men's  clothes.  But  he  didn't  say  nothin' 
even  den.  Look  lak  he  was  des  lyin'  low  bidin'  his 
time." 

Pete  got  up  and  began  to  dress  himself  with  the 
unimaginative  disregard  for  danger  that  is  charac- 
teristic of  his  race. 

"I  bet,  myse'f,  Sam  done  it,"  he  said,  reflectively. 


Mam'    Linda 

"He's  er  bad  yaller  nigger,  Uncle  Richmond,  en 
ever  since  Johnson  en  Dan  Willis  larruped  we-all, 
he's  been  sulkin'  en  growlin'.  But  es  you  say,  Uncle 
Rich',  he  didn't  talk  out  open.  He  lay  low." 

"Dat  don't  mek  no  diffunce,  boy,"  the  old  black 
man  went  on,  earnestly;  "you  git  out'n  here  in  er 
hurry  en  mek  er  break  fer  dem  woods.  Even  den  I 
doubt  ef  dat  gwine  ter  save  yo'  skin,  'ca'se  Dan 
Willis  got  er  pair  er  blood-hounds  dat  kin  smell 
nigger  tracks  thoo  er  ten-inch  snow." 

"Huh,  I  say,  Uncle  Richmond,  you  don't  know 
me,"  Pete  said.  "You  don't  know  me,  ef  you  'low 
I'm  gwine  ter  run  fum  dese  white  men.  I  'ain't  been 
nigh  dat  Abe  Johnson's  house — not  even  cross  his 
line  er  fence.  I  promised  Marse  Carson  Dwight  not 
ter  go  nigh  'im,  en — en  I  promised  'im  ter  let  up  on 
my  gab  out  here,  en  I  done  dat,  too.  No,  suh,  Unc' 
Rich',  you  git  somebody  else  ter  run  yo'  foot-race. 
I'm  gwine  ter  cook  my  breakfust  lak  I  always  do  en 
den  go  out  ter  my  sprouts  dat  hatter  be  grubbed.  I 
got  my  task  ter  do,  rain  er  shine." 

"Look  here,  boy,"  the  old  man's  blue-black  eyes 
gleamed  as  he  stared  at  Pete.  "  I  know  yo'  mammy 
en  daddy,  en  I  like  urn.  Dey  good  black  folks  er  de 
ol'  stripe,  en  always  was  friendly  ter  me,  en  I  don't 
like  ter  see  you  in  dis  mess.  I  tell  you,  I'm  er  old 
man.  I  know  how  white  men  act  in  er  case  like  dis 
— dey  don't  have  one  bit  er  pity  er  reason.  Dey  will 
kill  you  sho.  Dey'd  er  been  here  'fo'  dis,  but  dey 
gittin'  together.  Listen!  Hear  dem  hawns  en  yell- 
in'? — dat  at  Wilson's  sto'.  Dey  will  be  here  soon. 
I  don't  want  ter  stan'  here  en  argue  wid  you.  I 
'ain't  had  nothin'  ter  do  wid  it,  but  dey  would  sad- 

92 


Mam'   Linda 

die  some  of  it  onto  me  ef  dey  found  out  I  come  here 
ter  warn  you.  Hurry  up,  boy." 

"I  ain't  gwine  ter  do  it,  Uncle  Rich',"  Pete  de- 
clared, firmly,  and  with  a  grave  face.  "You  are  er 
old  man,  but  you  ain't  givin'  me  good  advice.  Ef  I 
run,  dey  would  say  I  was  guilty  sho',  en  den,  es  you 
say,  de  dogs  could  track  me  down,  anyway." 

The  boy's  logic  seemed  unassailable.  The  pierc- 
ing, beadlike  eyes  of  the  old  man  flickered.  "Well," 
he  said,  "I  done  all  I  could.  I'm  gwine  move  on. 
Even  now,  dey  may  know  I  come  here  at  dis  early 
time,  en  mix  me  up  in  it.  Good-bye.  I  hope  fer 
Mammy  Lindy's  sake  dat  dey  will  let  you  off — I  do 
sho." 

Left  alone,  Pete  went  out  to  the  edge  of  the  wood 
behind  his  cabin  and  gathered  up  some  sticks,  leaves, 
and  pieces  of  bark  that  had  fallen  from  the  decaying 
boughs  of  the  trees,  and  brought  them  into  the  cabin 
and  deposited  them  on  the  broad  stone  hearth. 
Then  he  uncovered  the  coals  he  had  the  night  before 
buried  in  the  ashes,  and  made  a  fire  for  the  prepara- 
tion of  his  simple  breakfast.  He  had  a  sharp  sense 
of  animal  hunger,  which  was  due  to  his  long  walk  to 
and  from  the  dance  and  the  fact  that  he  was  bodily 
sound  and  vigorous.  He  took  as  much  fresh-ground 
corn-meal  as  his  hands  would  hold  from  a  tow  bag 
in  a  corner  of  the  room  and  put  it  into  a  tin  pan. 
To  this  he  added  a  cup  of  water  and  a  bit  of  salt, 
stirring  it  with  his  hand  till  it  was  well  mixed.  He 
then  deftly  formed  it  into  a  pone,  and,  wrapping  it 
in  a  clean  husk  of  corn,  he  deposited  it  in  the  hot 
ashes,  covering  it  well  with  live  coals.  Then  he 
made  his  coffee,  being  careful  that  the  water  in  the 

93 


Mam'    Linda 

pot  did  not  rise  as  high  as  the  point  near  the  spout 
where  the  vessel  leaked.  Next  he  unwrapped  a 
strip  of  "streak  o'  lean  streak  o'  fat"  bacon,  and 
with  his  pocket-knife  sliced  some  of  it  into  a  frying- 
pan  already  hot.  These  things  accomplished,  he  had 
only  to  wait  a  few  minutes  for  the  heat  to  do  its 
work,  and  he  stepped  back  and  stood  in  the  doorway. 

Far  across  the  meadow,  now  under  the  slanting 
rays  of  the  sun,  he  saw  old  Uncle  Richmond,  bow- 
legged  and  short,  waddling  along  through  the  dewy 
grass  and  weeds,  his  head  bowed,  his  long  arms  swing- 
ing at  his  sides. 

"Huh!"  was  Pete's  slow  comment,  "so  somebody 
done  already  settled  Abe  Johnson's  hash.  I  know 
in  reason  it  was  Sam  Dudlow,  en  I  reckon  ef  dat 
rampacious  gang  er  white  men  lays  hands  on  'im — ef 
dey  lays  hands  on  'im —  He  was  recalling  certain 
details  of  the  recent  riots  in  Atlanta,  and  an  un- 
conscious shudder  passed  over  him.  "Well,"  he 
continued  to  reflect,  "Abe  Johnson  was  a  hard  man 
on  black  folks,  but  his  wife  was  er  downright  good 
'oman.  Ever'body  say  she  was,  en  she  was.  It  was 
a  gre't  pity  ter  kill  her  dat  way,  but  I  reckon  Sam 
was  afeard  she'd  tell  it  on  'im  en  had  ter  kill  um 
bofe.  Yes,  Miz  Johnson  was  er  good  'oman — good 
ter  niggers.  She  fed  lots  of  'em  behind  dat  man's 
back,  en  wished  'em  well;  en  now,  po',  po'  'oman!" 

Pete  went  back  to  the  fireplace  and  with  the  blade 
of  his  knife  turned  the  curling  white  and  brown 
strips  of  bacon,  and  with  the  toe  of  his  coarse,  worn 
shoe  pushed  fresher  coals  against  his  coffee-pot. 
Then  for  a  moment  he  stood  gravely  looking  at  the 
fire. 

94 


Mam'   Linda 

"Well,"  he  mused,  with  a  shrugging  of  his  shoul- 
ders. "I  wish  des  one  thing.  I  wish  Marse  Carson 
was  here.  He  wouldn't  let  'em  tech  me.  He's  de 
best  en  smartest  lawyer  in  Georgia,  en  he  would 
tell  'em  what  er  lot  er  fools  dey  was  ter  say  I  done  it, 
when  I  was  right  dar  'n  my  baid.  My!  dat  bacon 
smell  good!  I  wish  I  had  er  few  fresh  hen  aigs  ter 
drap  in  dat  brown  grease.  Huh!  it  make  my  mouf 
water. ' ' 

There  was  no  table  in  the  room,  and  so  when  he 
had  taken  up  his  breakfast  he  sat  down  on  the  floor 
and  ate  it  with  supreme  relish.  Through  all  the 
meal,  however,  in  spite  of  the  arguments  he  was 
mentally  producing,  there  were  far  under  the  crust 
of  his  being  certain  elemental  promptings  towards 
fear  and  self-preservation. 

"Well,  dar's  one  thing,"  he  mused.  "Marse 
Hillyer  done  laid  me  out  my  task  ter  do  in  de  old 
fieP  en  I  ain't  ergoin'  to  shirk  it,  'ca'se  Marse  Carson 
gwine  ter  ax  'im,  when  he  go  in  town,  how  I'm  gittin' 
on,  en  I  wants  er  good  repo't.  No,  I  ain't  goin'  ter 
shirk  it,  ef  all  de  dogs  en  white  men  in  de  county 
come  yelpin'  on  de  hunt  for  Sam  Dudlow." 


XIII 

'IS  breakfast  over,  Pete  shouldered  his 
grubbing  -  hoe,  an  implement  shaped 
like  an  adze,  and  made  his  way  through 
the  dewy  undergrowth  of  the  wood  to 
an  open  field  an  eighth  of  a  mile  from 
his  cabin.  There  he  set  to  work  on  what  was  con- 
sidered by  farmers  the  hardest  labor  connected  with 
the  cultivation  of  the  soil.  It  consisted  of  partly 
digging  and  partly  pulling  out  by  the  roots  the 
stout  young  bushes  which  infested  the  neglected  old 
fields. 

Pete  was  hard  at  work  in  the  corner  of  a  ten-rail 
worm-fence,  when,  hearing  a  sound  in  the  wood, 
which  sloped  down  from  a  rocky  hill  quite  near  him, 
he  saw  a  farmer,  who  lived  in  the  neighborhood, 
pause  suddenly,  even  in  a  startled  manner,  and  stare 
steadily  at  him. 

"Oh!"  Pete  heard  him  exclaim;  "why,  you  are 

Carson  Dwight's  new  man,  ain't  you,  from  Darley?" 

"Yes,  suh,  dat  me,"  the  negro  replied.    "Mr.  Hill- 

yer,  de  overseer  fer  my  boss,  set  me  on  dis  yer  job. 

I  want  ter  clean  it  up  ter  de  branch  by  Sadday." 

"Huh!"  The  man  approached  nearer,  eying  the 
negro  closely  from  head  to  foot,  his  glance  resting 
longer  on  Pete's  hip -pocket  than  anywhere  else. 
"  Huh!  I  heard  down  at  the  store  just  now  that  you'd 

96 


Mam'    Linda 

left — throwed  up  your  job,  I  mean — an'  gone  clean 
off." 

"No,  I  hain't  throwed  up  no  job,"  the  negro  said, 
his  slow  intelligence  groping  for  the  possible  cause 
of  such  a  report.  "  I  been  right  here  since  my  boss 
sent  me  over,  en  I'm  gwine  stay  lessen  he  sen'  fer 
me  ter  tek  care  o'  his  hosses  in  town.  I  reckon  you 
heard  er  Marse  Carson  Dwight's  fine  drivin'  stock." 

The  farmer  pulled  his  long  brown  beard,  his  eyes 
still  on  Pete's  face;  it  was  as  if  he  had  not  caught 
the  boy's  last  remark. 

"They  said  down  at  the  store  that  you  left  last 
night,  after — that  you  went  off  last  night.  A  man 
said  he  seed  you  at  the  nigger  blow-out  on  Hilton's 
farm  about  one  o'clock,  and  that  after  it  was  over 
you  turned  towards — I  don't  know — I'm  just  tellin' 
you  what  they  said  down  at  the  store." 

"I  was  at  dat  shindig,"  Pete  said.  "I  walked 
fum  here  dar  en  back  ergin." 

"Huh,  well  " — the  farmer's  face  took  on  a  shrewd 
expression — "I  must  move  on.  I'm  lookin'  fer  a 
brown  cow  with  a  white  tail,  an'  blaze  on  'er  face." 

As  the  man  disappeared  in  the  wood,  Pete  was 
conscious  of  a  sense  of  vague  uneasiness  which  some- 
how seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  augmented  recurrence  of 
the  feeling  left  by  the  warning  of  his  early  visitor. 

"  Dat  white  man  certainly  act  curi's,"  Pete  mused, 
as  he  leaned  on  the  handle  of  his  hoe  and  stared 
at  the  spot  where  the  farmer  had  disappeared  in 
the  woods.  "I'll  bet  my  hat  he  been  thinkin',  lak 
Uncle  Rich'  said  dey  would,  dat  I  had  er  hand  in  dat 
bloody  business.  Po'  Miz  Johnson  —  I  reckon  dey 
layin'  'er  out  now.  She  certney  was  good.  I  re- 

97 


Mam'    Linda 

member  how  she  tol'  me  at  de  spring  de  day  I  come 
here  ter  try  en  be  a  good,  steady  boy  en  not  mek  dem 
white  men  pounce 'on  me  ergin.  Po'  'oman!  Seem 
lak  er  gre't  pity.  I  reckon  Abe  Johnson  got  what 
was  comin'  ter  'im,  but  it  look  lak  even  Sam  Dudlow 
wouldn't  er  struck  dat  good  'oman  down.  Maybe 
he  thought  he  had  ter — maybe  she  cornered  'im ;  but 
I  dunno;  he's  er  tough  nigger — de  toughest  I  ever 
run  ercross,  en  I've  seed  er  lots  urn." 

Pete  leaned  on  the  fence,  wiped  his  perspiring 
brow  with  his  bare  hand,  snapped  his  fingers  like  a 
whip  to  rid  them  of  the  drops  of  sweat,  and  allowed 
his  thoughts  to  merge  into  the  darker  view  of  the 
situation.  He  was  really  not  much  afraid.  Under 
grave  danger,  a  negro  has  not  so  great  a  concern  over 
death  as  a  white  man,  because  he  is  not  endowed 
with  sufficient  intelligence  to  grasp  its  full  import, 
and  yet  to-day  Pete  was  feeling  unusual  qualms  of 
unrest. 

"Bar's  one  thing  sho,"  he  finally  concluded;  "dat 
white  man  looked  powerful  funny  when  he  seed  me, 
en  he  said  he  heard  I'd  run  off.  I'll  bet  my  hat  he's 
makin'  a  bee-line  fer  dat  sto'  ter  tell  'em  whar  I  is 
right  now.  I  wish  one  thing.  I  wish  Marse  Carson 
was  here;  he'd  sen'  'em  'bout  deir  business  mighty 
quick." 

With  a  shrug  of  indecision,  the  boy  set  to  work. 
His  back  happened  to  be  turned  towards  the  store, 
barely  visible  over  the  swelling  ground  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  so  he  failed  to  note  the  rapid  approach 
across  the  meadow  of  two  men  till  they  were  close 
upon  him.  One  was  Jeff  Braider,  the  sheriff  of  the 
county,  a  stalwart  man  of  forty,  in  high  top-boots,  a 

98 


Mam'   Linda 

leather  belt  holding  a  long  revolver,  a  broad-brimmed 
hat,  and  coarse  gray  suit ;  his  companion  was  a  hasti- 
ly deputized  citizen  armed  with  a  double-barrelled 
shot-gun. 

"Put  down  that  hoe,  Pete!"  the  sheriff  command- 
ed, sharply,  as  the  negro  turned  with  it  in  his  hand. 
"Put  it  down,  I  say!  Drop  it!" 

"What  I  gwine  put  it  down  for  ?"  the  negro  asked, 
in  characteristic  tone.  "Huh!  I  got  ter  do  my 
work." 

"Drop  it,  and  don't  begin  to  give  me  your  jaw," 
the  sheriff  said.  "You've  got  to  come  on  with  us. 
You  are  under  arrest." 

"What  you  'rest  me  fer?"  Pete  asked,  still  dog- 
gedly. 

"You  are  accused  of  killing  the  Johnsons  last 
night,  and  if  you  didn't  do  it,  I'm  here  to  say  you 
are  in  the  tightest  hole  an  innocent  man  ever  got  in. 
King  and  I  are  going  to  do  our  level  best  to  put  you 
in  safety  in  the  Gilmore  jail  so  you  can  be  tried 
fairly  by  law,  but  we've  got  to  get  a  move  on  us. 
The  whole  section  is  up  in  arms,  and  we'll  have  hard 
work  dodging  'em.  Come  on.  I  won't  rope  you, 
but  if  you  start  to  run  we'll  shoot  you  down  like  a 
rabbit,  so  don't  try  that  on." 

"My  Gawd,  Mr.  Braider,  I  didn't  kill  dem  folks!" 
Pete  said,  pleadingly.  "I  don't  know  a  thing 
about  it." 

"Well,  whether  you  did  or  not,  they  say  you 
threatened  to  do  it,  and  your  life  won't  be  worth  a 
hill  of  beans  if  you  stay  here.  The  only  thing  to  do 
is  to  get  you  to  the  Gilmore  jail.  We  may  make  it 
through  the  mountains  if  we  are  careful,  but  we've 

99 


Mam'   Linda 

got  to  git  horses.  We  can  borrow  some  from  Jabe 
Parsons  down  the  road,  if  he  hasn't  gone  crazy  like 
all  the  rest.  Come  on." 

"I  tell  you,  Mr.  Braider,  I  don't  know  er  thing 
'bout  dis,"  Pete  said;  "but  it  looks  ter  me  lak mebby 
Sam  Dudlow— " 

"Don't  make  any  statement  to  me,"  the  officer 
said,  humanely  enough  in  his  rough  way.  "You 
are  accused  of  a  dirty  job,  Pete,  and  it  will  take  a 
dang  good  lawyer  to  save  you  from  the  halter,  even 
if  we  save  you  from  this  mob ;  but  talkin'  to  me  won't 
do  no  good.  Me'n  King  here  couldn't  protect  you 
from  them  men  if  they  once  saw  you.  I  tell  you, 
young  man,  all  hell  has  broke  loose.  For  twenty 
miles  around  no  black  skin  will  be  safe,  much  less 
yours.  Innocent  or  guilty,  you've  certainly  shot 
off  your  mouth.  Come  on." 

Without  further  protest,  Pete  dropped  his  hoe 
and  went  with  them.  Doggedly,  and  with  an  over- 
powering and  surly  sense  of  injury,  he  slouched  along 
between  the  two  men. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  down  a  narrow,  private  road, 
which  was  traversed  without  meeting  any  one,  they 
came  to  Parsons'  farm  -  house,  a  one  -  story  frame 
building  with  a  porch  in  front,  and  a  roof  that 
sloped  back  to  a  crude  lean-to  shed  in  the  rear.  A 
wagon  stood  under  the  spreading  branches  of  a  big 
beech,  and  near  by  a  bent-tongued  harrow,  weighted 
down  by  a  heap  of  stones,  a  chicken  -  coop,  an  old 
beehive,  and  a  ramshackle  buggy.  No  one  was  in 
sight.  No  living  thing  stirred  about  the  place,  save 
the  turkeys  and  ducks  and  a  solitary  peacock 
strutting  about  in  the  front  yard,  where  rows  of 

100 


Mam'    Linda 

half-buried  stones  from  the  mountain-sides  formed 
the  jagged  borders  of  a  gravel  walk  from  the  fence  to 
the  steps. 

The  sheriff  drew  the  gate  open  and,  according 
to  rural  etiquette,  hallooed  lustily.  After  a  pause 
the  sound  of  some  one  moving  in  the  house  reached 
their  ears.  A  window-curtain  was  drawn  aside,  and 
later  a  woman  stood  in  the  doorway  and  advanced 
wonderingly  to  the  edge  of  the  porch.  She  was 
portly,  red  of  complexion,  about  middle-aged,  and 
dressed  in  checked  gingham,  the  predominating 
color  of  which  was  blue. 

"Well,  I'll  be  switched!"  she  ejaculated;  "what 
do  you-uns  want?" 

"Want  to  see  Jabe,  Mrs.  Parsons;  is  he  about?" 

"He's  over  in  his  hay-field,  or  was  a  minute  ago. 
What  you  want  with  him?" 

"We've  got  to  borrow  some  hosses,"  the  sheriff 
answered.  "We  want  three — one  fer  each.  We're 
goin'  to  try  to  dodge  them  blood-thirsty  mobs,  Mrs. 
Parsons,  an'  put  this  feller  in  jail,  whar  he'll  be  safe." 

"That  boy?"  The  woman  came  down  the  steps, 
rolling  her  sleeves  up.  "Why,  that  boy  didn't  kill 
them  folks.  I  know  that  boy,  he's  the  son  of  old 
Mammy  Linda  and  Uncle  Lewis  Warren.  Now, 
look  here,  Jeff  Braider,  don't  you  and  Bill  King  go 
and  make  eternal  fools  o'  yourselves.  That  boy 
didn't  no  more  do  that  nasty  work  than  I  did.  It 
ain't  in  'im.  He  hain't  that  look.  I  know  niggers 
as  well  as  you  or  anybody  else." 

"No,  I  didn't  do  it,  Mrs.  Parsons,"  the  prisoner 
affirmed.  "  I  didn't!  I  didn't!" 

"I  know  you  didn't,"  said  the  woman.     "Wasn't 

101 


Mam'    Linda 

I  standin'  here  in  the  door  this  mornin'  and  saw  him 
git  up  an'  go  out  to  git  his  wood  and  cook  his  break- 
fast? Then  I  seed  'im  shoulder  his  grubbin'-hoe 
and  go  to  the  field  to  work.  You  officers  may  think 
you  know  it  all,  but  no  nigger  ain't  agoin'  to  stay 
around  like  that  after  killin'  a  man  an'  woman  in 
cold  blood.  The  nigger  that  did  that  job  was  some 
scamp  that's  fur  from  the  spot  by  this  time,  and  not 
a  boy  fetched  up  among  good  white  folks  like  this 
one  was,  with  the  best  old  mammy  and  daddy  that 
ever  had  kinky  heads." 

"But  witnesses  say  he  threatened  Abe  Johnson  a 
month  ago,"  argued  Braider.  "I  have  to  do  my 
duty,  Mrs.  Parsons.  There  never  would  be  any  jus- 
tice if  we  overlooked  a  thing  as  pointed  as  that  is." 

"Threatened  'im?"  the  woman  cried;  "well,  what 
does  that  prove?  A  nigger  will  talk  back  an'  act 
surly  on  his  death-bed  if  he's  mad.  That's  all  the 
way  they  have  of  defendin'  theirselves.  If  Pete 
hadn't  talked  some  after  the  lashin'  he  got  from  them 
men,  thar'd  'a'  been  some'n'  wrong  with  him.  Now, 
you  let  'im  loose.  As  shore  as  you  start  off  with  that 
boy,  he'll  be  lynched.  The  fact  that  you've  got  'im 
in  tow  will  be  all  them  crazy  men  want.  You 
couldn't  get  two  miles  in  any  direction  from  here 
without  bein'  stopped;  they  are  as  thick  as  fleas  on 
all  sides,  an'  every  road  is  under  watch." 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  take  yore  advice,  Mrs.  Parsons," 
Braider  said,  almost  out  of  patience.  "I've  got 
my  duty  to  perform,  an'  I  know  what  it  is  a  sight 
better  than  you  do." 

"If  you  start  off  with  that  boy  his  blood  will  be 
on  yore  head,"  the  woman  said,  firmly.  "Left 

IO2 


Mam'    Linda 

alone,  and  advised  to  hide  out  till  this  excitement  is 
over,  he  might  stand  a  chance  to  save  his  neck ;  but 
with  you — why,  you  mought  as  well  stand  still  and 
yell  to  that  crazy  gang  to  come  on." 

"Well,  we've  got  to  git  horses  to  go  on  with,  and 
yours  are  the  nearest." 

"Huh!  you  won't  ride  no  harmless  nigger  to  the 
scaffold  on  my  stock,"  the  woman  said,  sharply. 
"I  know  whar  my  duty  lies.  A  woman  with  a 
thimbleful  of  brains  don't  have  to  listen  to  a  long 
string  of  testimony  to  know  a  murderer  when  she 
sees  one;  that  boy's  as  harmless  as  a  baby  and  you 
are  trying  your  level  best  to  have  him  mobbed." 

"Well,  right  is  on  my  side,  and  I  can  take  the 
horses  if  I  see  fit  in  the  furtherance  of  law  an'  order," 
said  Braider.  "If  Jabe  was  here  he'd  tell  me  to  go 
ahead,  an'  so  I'll  have  to  do  it  anyway.  Bill,  you 
stay  here  on  guard  an'  I'll  bridle  the  horses  an'  lead 
'em  out." 

A  queer  look,  half  of  anger,  half  of  definite  purpose, 
settled  on  the  strong,  rugged  face  of  the  woman,  as 
she  saw  the  sheriff  stalk  off  to  the  barn-yard  gate, 
enter  it,  and  let  it  close  after  him. 

"Bill  King,"  she  said,  drawing  nearer  the  man  left 
in  charge  of  the  bewildered  prisoner,  who  now  for  the 
first  time  under  the  words  of  his  defender  had  sensed 
his  real  danger  —  "Bill  King,  you  hain't  agoin'  to 
lead  that  poor  boy  right  to  his  death  this  way — you 
don't  look  like  that  sort  of  a  man."  She  suddenly 
swept  her  furtive  eyes  over  the  barn-yard,  evidently 
noting  that  the  sheriff  was  now  in  the  stable.  "  No, 
you  hain't — for  I  hain't  agoin'  to  let  you!"  And 
suddenly,  without  warning  even  to  the  slightest 
s  103 


Mam'    Linda 

change  of  facial  expression,  she  grasped  the  end  of 
the  shot-gun  the  man  held,  and  whirled  him  round 
like  a  top. 

"Run,  boy!"  she  cried.  "Run  for  the  woods,  and 
God  be  with  you!"  For  an  instant  Pete  stood  as  if 
rooted  to  the  spot,  and  then,  as  swift  of  foot  as  a 
young  Indian,  he  turned  and  darted  through  the 
gate  and  round  the  farm-house,  leaving  the  woman 
and  King  struggling  for  the  possession  of  the  gun. 
It  fell  to  the  ground,  but  she  grasped  King  around 
the  waist  and  clung  to  him  with  the  tenacity  of  a 
bull-dog. 

"Good  God,  Mrs.  Parsons,"  he  panted,  writhing 
in  her  grasp,  "let  me  loose!" 

There  was  a  smothered  oath  from  the  barn-yard, 
and,  revolver  in  hand,  the  sheriff  ran  out. 

"What  the  hell!  —  which  way  did  he  go?"  he 
gasped. 

But  King,  still  in  the  tight  embrace  of  his  assail- 
ant, seemed  too  badly  upset  to  reply.  And  it  was 
not  till  Braider  had  torn  her  locked  hands  loose  that 
King  could  stammer  out,  ' '  Round  the  house — into 
the  woods!" 

"An'  we  couldn't  catch  'im  to  save  us  from — " 
Braider  said.  "Madam,  I'll  handle  you  for  this! 
I  '11  push  this  case  against  you  to  the  full  limit  of  the 
law!" 

"You'll  do  no  thin'  of  the  kind,"  the  woman  said, 

"unless  you  want  to  make  yourself  the  laughin'- 

stock  of  the  whole  community.     In  doin'  what  I 

;  done  I  acted  f  er  all  the  good  women  of  this  country ; 

| an'  when  you  run  ag'in  we'll  beat  you  at  the  polls. 

'Law  an'  order's  one  thing,  but  officers  helpin'  mobs 

104 


Mam'    Linda 

do  their  dirty  work  is  another.  If  the  boy  de- 
serves a  trial  he  deserves  it,  but  he'd  not  'a'  stood 
one  chance  in  ten  million  in  your  charge,  an'  you 
know  -it." 

At  this  juncture  a  man  emerged  from  the  close- 
growing  bushes  across  the  road,  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment on  his  face.  It  was  Jabe  Parsons.  "What's 
wrong  here?"  he  cried,  excitedly. 

"Oh,  no  thin'  much,"  Braider  answered,  with  a 
white  sneer  of  fury.  "We  stopped  here  with  Pete 
Warren  to  borrow  your  horses  to  git  'im  over  the 
mountain  to  the  Gilmore  jail,  an'  your  good  woman 
grabbed  Bill's  gun  while  I  was  in  the  stable  an' 
deliberately  turned  the  nigger  loose." 

"Great  God!  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  Par- 
sons thundered  at  his  wife,  who,  red-faced  and  de- 
fiant, stood  rubbing  a  small  bruised  spot  on  her  wrist. 

"  Nothin's  the  matter  with  me,"  she  retorted,  "ex- 
cept I've  got  more  sense  than  you  men  have.  I 
know  that  boy  didn't  kill  them  folks,  an'  I  didn't 
intend  to  see  you-all  lynch  'im." 

' '  Well,  I  know  he  did ! ' '  Parsons  yelled.  ' '  But  he'll 
be  caught  before  night,  anyway.  He  can't  hide  in 
them  woods  from  hounds  like  they've  got  down  the 
road." 

"Your  wife  'lowed  he'd  be  safer  in  the  woods  than 
in  the  Gilmore  jail,"  Braider  said,  with  another 
sneer. 

"Well,  he  would.  As  for  that,"  Parsons  retorted, 
"if  you  think  that  army  headed  by  the  dead  woman's 
daddy  an'  brothers  would  halt  at  a  puny  bird-cage 
like  that  jail,  you  don't  know  mountain  men.  They'd 
smash  the  damn  thing  like  an  egg-shell.  I  reckon  a 


Mam'    Linda 

sheriff  has  to  pretend  to  act  fer  the  law,  whether  he 
earns  his  salary  or  not.  Well,  I'll  go  down  the  road 
an'  tell  'em  whar  to  look.  Thar'll  be  a  picnic  som'er's 
nigh  here  in  a  powerful  short  while.  We've  got  men 
enough  to  surround  that  whole  mountain." 


XIV 

[HE  following  night  was  a  cloudless, 
moonlit  one,  and  restlessly  and  heart- 
sore  Helen  walked  the  upper  floor  of 
the  veranda,  her  eyes  constantly  bent 
on  the  street  leading  past  D wight's 
on  to  the  centre  of  the  town.  The  greater  part  of 
the  day  she  had  spent  with  Linda,  trying  to  pacify 
her  and  rouse  the  hope  that  Pete  would  not  be  im- 
plicated in  the  trouble  in  the  mountains.  Helen 
had  gone  down  to  Carson's  office  about  noon,  feeling 
vaguely  that  he  could  advise  her  better  than  any 
one  else  in  the  grave  situation.  She  had  found 
Garner  seated  at  his  desk,  bent  over  a  law-book,  a 
studious  expression  on  his  face.  Seeing  her  in  the 
doorway,  he  sprang  up  gallantly  and  proffered  a 
rickety  chair,  from  which  he  had  hastily  dumped  a 
pile  of  old  newspapers. 

" Is  Carson  in?"  she  asked,  sitting  down. 
"Oh  no,  he's  gone  over  to  the  farm,"  Garner  said. 
"I  couldn't  hold  him  here  after  he  heard  of  the 
trouble.  You  see,  Miss  Helen,  he  thinks,  from  a  few 
things  picked  up,  that  Pete  is  likely  to  be  suspected 
and  be  roughly  handled,  and,  you  know,  as  he  was 
partly  the  cause  of  the  boy's  going  there,  he  nat- 
urally would  feel — 

"  I  was  the  real,  cause  of  it,"  the  girl  broke  in,  with 
107 


Mam'    Linda 

a  sigh  and  a  troubled  face.  ' '  We  both  thought  it  was 
for  the  best,  and  if  it  results  in  Pete's  death  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  look  at  it  that  way,"  Garner  said. 
"You  were  both  acting  for  what  you  thought  was 
right.  As  I  say,  I  tried  my  best  to  keep  Carson  from 
going  over  there  to-day,  but  he  would  go.  We  al- 
most had  an  open  rupture  over  it.  You  see,  Miss 
Helen,  I  have  set  my  head  on  seeing  him  in  the 
legislature,  and  he  is  eternally  doing  things  that  kill 
votes.  There  is  not  a  thing  in  the  category  of 
political  offences  as  fatal  as  this  very  thing.  He's 
already  taken  Pete's  part  and  abused  the  men  who 
whipped  him,  and  now  that  the  boy  is  suspected  of 
retaliating  and  killing  the  Johnsons,  why,  the  peo- 
ple will — well,  I  wouldn't  be  one  bit  surprised  to  see 
them  jump  on  Carson  himself.  Men  infuriated  like 
that  haven't  any  more  sense  than  mad  dogs,  and 
they  won't  stand  for  a  white  man  opposing  them. 
But,  of  course,  you  know  why  Carson  is  acting  so 
recklessly." 

"I  do ?  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Garner ?" 
The  lawyer  smiled,  wiped  his  facile  mouth  with  his 
small  white  hand,  and  said,  teasingly:  "Why,  you 
are  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Carson  wants  to  save  the 
boy  simply  because  you  are  indirectly  interested  in 
him.  That's  the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell.  He's 
been  as  mad  as  a  wet  hen  ever  since  they  whipped 
Pete,  because  he  was  the  son  of  your  old  mammy,  and 
now  that  the  boy's  in  actual  peril  Carson  has  gone 
clean  daft.  Well,  it's  reported  among  the  gossips 
about  town  that  you  turned  him  down,  Miss  Helen- 
like  you  did  some  of  the  balance  of  us  presumptuous 

108 


Mam'   Linda 

chaps  that  didn't  know  enough  to  keep  our  hearts 
where  they  belonged — but  you  sat  on  the  best  man  in 
the  bunch  when  you  did  it.  It's  me  that's  doing 
this  talking." 

Helen  sat  silent  and  pale  for  a  moment,  unable  to 
formulate  a  reply  to  his  outspoken  remark.  Pres- 
ently she  said,  evasively : 

"Then  you  think  both  of  them  are  in  actual 
danger?" 

"Well,  Pete  hasn't  one  chance  in  a  million,"  Gar- 
ner said,  gently.  "There  is  no  use  trying  to  hide 
that  fact ;  and  if  Carson  should  happen  to  run  across 
Dan  Willis — well,  one  or  the  other  would  have  to 
drop.  Carson  is  in  a  dangerous  mood.  He  believes 
as  firmly  in  Pete's  innocence  as  he  does  in  his  own, 
and  if  Dan  Willis  dared  to  threaten  him,  as  he's 
likely  to  do  when  they  meet,  why,  Carson  would 
defend  himself." 

Helen  drew  her  veil  down  over  her  eyes  and  Garner 
could  see  that  she  was  quivering  from  head  to  foot. 

"Oh,  it's  awful — awful!"  he  heard  her  say,  softly. 
Then  she  rose  and  moved  to  the  open  door,  where  she 
stood  as  if  undecided  what  step  to  take.  "Is  there 
no  way  to  get  any — any  news?"  she  asked,  tremu- 
lously. 

"None  now,"  he  told  her.  "In  times  of  excite- 
ment over  in  the  mountains,  few  people  come  into 
town;  they  all  want  to  stay  at  home  and  see  it 
through." 

She  stepped  out  on  the  sidewalk,  and  he  followed 
her,  gallantly  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand.  Scarcely 
a  soul  was  in  sight.  The  town  seemed  deserted. 

"Madam,  rumor,"  Garner  said,  with  a  smile,  "re- 
109 


Mam'    Linda 

ports  that  your  friend  Mr.  Sanders,  from  Augusta, 
is  coming  up  for  a  visit." 

"Yes,  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning," 
Helen  said,  in  a  dignified  tone.  "My  father  must 
have  spoken  of  it.  It  will  be  Mr.  Sanders'  first 
visit  to  Darley,  and  he  will  find  us  terribly  upset. 
If  I  knew  how  to  reach  him  I'd  ask  him  to  wait  a  few 
days  till  this  uncertainty  is  over,  but  he  is  on  his 
way  here — -is,  in  fact,  stopping  somewhere  in  At- 
lanta— and  intends  to  come  on  up  to-morrow  or  the 
next  day.  Does — does  Carson — has  he  heard  of  Mr. 
Sanders'  coming?" 

"Oh  yes,  it  was  sprung  on  him  this  morning  for 
a  deadly  purpose,"  Garner  said,  with  a  significant 
smile.  "The  whole  gang  —  Keith,  Wade,  and  Bob 
Smith — were  in  here  trying  to  keep  him  from  going 
to  the  farm.  They  had  tried  everything  they  could 
think  of  to  stop  him,  and  as  a  last  resort  set  in  to 
teasing.  Keith  told  him  Sanders  would  sit  in  the 
parlor  and  say  sweet  things  to  you  while  Carson  was 
trying  to  liberate  the  ex-slaves  of  your  family  at  the 
risk  of  bone  and  sinew.  Keith  said  Carson  was  show- 
ing the  finest  proof  of  fidelity  that  was  ever  given — 
fidelity  to  the  man  in  the  parlor." 

"Keith  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  of  himself," 
Helen  said,  with  her  first  show  of  vexation.  "And 
what  did  Carson  say?" 

"The  poor  chap  took  it  all  in  a  good -humor," 
Garner  said.  "  In  fact,  he  was  so  much  wrought  up 
over  Pete's  predicament  that  he  hardly  heard  what 
they  were  saying." 

"You  really  think  Carson  is  in  danger,  too?" 
Helen  continued,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

no 


Mam'    Linda 

"If  he  meets  Dan  Willis,  yes,"  said  Garner.  "If 
he  opposes  the  mob,  yes  again.  Dan  Willis  has  al- 
ready succeeded  in  creating  a  lot  of  unpopularity  for 
him  in  that  quarter,  and  the  mere  sight  of  Carson  at 
such  a  time  would  be  like  a  torch  to  a  dry  hay-stack. " 

So  Helen  had  gone  home  and  spent  the  afternoon 
and  evening  in  real  torture  of  suspense,  and  now,  as 
she  walked  the  veranda  floor  alone  with  a  realization 
of  the  grim  possibilities  of  the  case  drawn  sharply  be- 
fore her  mental  vision,  she  was  all  but  praying  aloud 
for  Carson's  safe  return,  and  anxiously  keeping  her 
gaze  on  the  moonlit  street  below.  Suddenly  her 
attention  was  drawn  to  the  walk  in  front  of  the 
Dwight  house.  Some  one  was  walking  back  and 
forth  in  a  nervous  manner,  the  intermittent  flare  of 
a  cigar  flashing  out  above  the  shrubbery  like  the  glow 
of  a  lightning-bug.  Could  it  be — had  Carson  re- 
turned and  entered  by  the  less  frequently  used  gate 
in  the  rear?  For  several  minutes  she  watched  the 
figure  as  it  strode  back  and  forth  with  never-ceasing 
tread,  and  then,  fairly  consumed  with  the  desire  to 
set  her  doubts  at  rest,  she  went  down  into  the  garden 
at  the  side  of  the  house,  softly  approached  the  open 
gate  between  the  two  homesteads,  and  called  out: 

"Carson,  is  that  you?" 

The  figure  paused  and  turned,  the  fire  of  the  cigar 
described  a  red  half-circle  against  the  dark  back- 
ground, but  no  one  spoke.  Then,  as  she  waited  at 
the  gate,  her  heart  in  her  mouth,  the  smoker  came 
towards  her.  It  was  old  Henry  Dwight.  He  wore 
no  hat  nor  coat,  the  night  being  warm,  and  one  of 
his  fat  thumbs  was  under  his  broad  suspender. 

"No,  it's  not  him,  Miss  Helen,"  he  said,  rather 
in 


Mam'   Linda 

gruffly.  "He  hasn't  got  back  yet.  I've  had  my 
hands  full  since  supper.  My  wife  is  in  a  bad  way. 
She  has  been  worrying  awfully  since  twelve  o'clock, 
when  Carson  didn't  turn  up  to  dinner  as  usual.  She's 
guessed  what  he  went  to  the  farm  for,  and  she's  as 
badly  upset  as  old  Linda  is  over  that  trifling  Pete. 
I  thought  I  had  enough  trouble  before  the  war  over 
my  niggers,  but  here,  forty  years  later,  yours  are 
upsetting  things  even  worse.  I  only  wish  the  men 
that  fought  to  free  the  black  scamps  had  some  part 
of  the  burden  to  bear." 

"It  really  is  awful,"  Helen  responded;  "and  so 
Mrs.  D wight  is  upset  by  it?" 

"Oh  yes,  we  had  the  doctor  to  come,  and  he  gave 
some  slight  dose  or  other,  but  he  said  the  main  thing 
was  to  get  Carson  back  and  let  her  know  for  sure 
that  he  was  safe  and  sound.  I  sent  a  man  out  there 
lickety-split  on  the  fastest  horse  I  have,  and  he  ought 
to  have  got  back  two  hours  ago.  That's  what  I'm 
out  here  for.  I  know  she's  not  going  to  let  me  rest 
till  her  mind  is  at  ease." 

4 '  Do  you  really  think  any  actual  harm  could  have 
come  to  Carson?"  Helen  inquired,  anxiously. 

"It  could  come  to  anybody  who  has  the  knack  my 
boy  has  for  eternally  rubbing  folks  the  wrong  way," 
the  old  man  retorted  from  the  depths  of  his  irrita- 
tion; "but,  Lord,  my  young  lady,  you  are  at  the 
bottom  of  it!" 

"I?  Oh,  Mr.  Dwight,  don't  say  that!"  Helen 
pleaded. 

"Well,  I'm  only  telling  you  the  truth,"  said 
Dwight,  throwing  his  cigar  away  and  putting  both 
thumbs  under  his  suspenders.  "You  know  that  as 

112 


Mam*   Linda 

well  as  I  do.  He  sees  how  you  are  bothered  about 
your  old  mammy,  and  he  has  simply  taken  up  your 
cause.  It's  just  what  I'd  'a'  done  at  his  age.  I 
reckon  I'd  'a'  fought  till  I  dropped  in  my  tracks 
for  a  girl  I — but  from  all  accounts  you  and  Carson 
couldn't  agree,  or  rather  you  couldn't.  He  seems  to 
be  agreeing  now  and  staking  his  life  and  political 
chances  on  it.  Well,  I  don't  blame  him.  It  never 
run  in  the  D wight  blood  to  love  more  than  once,  an' 
then  it  was  always  for  the  pick  of  the  flock.  Well, 
you  are  the  pick  in  this  town,  an'  I  wouldn't  feel 
like  he  was  my  boy  if  he  stepped  down  and  out  as 
easy  as  some  do  these  days.  I  met  him  on  his  way 
to  the  farm  and  tried  to  shame  him  out  of  the  trip. 
I  joined  the  others  in  teasing  him  about  that  Augusta 
fellow,  who  can  do  his  courting  by  long-distance 
methods  in  an  easy  seat  at  his  writing-desk,  while 
up-country  chaps  are  doing  the  rough  work  for 
nothing,  but  it  didn't  feaze  'im.  He  tossed  his 
stubborn  head,  got  pretty  red  in  the  face,  and  said 
he  was  trying  to  help  old  Linda  and  Lewis  out,  and 
that  he  know  well  enough  you  didn't  care  a  cent  for 
him." 

Helen  had  grown  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  and  she 
now  found  herself  unable  to  make  any  adequate 
response  to  such  personal  allusions. 

"Huh,  I  see  I  got  you  teased,  too!"  D  wight  said, 
with  a  short,  staccato  laugh.  "Oh,  well,  you  mustn't 
mind  me.  I'll  go  in  and  see  if  my  wife  is  asleep,  and 
if  she  is  I'll  go  to  bed  myself." 

Helen,  deeply  depressed,  and  beset  with  many 
conflicting  emotions,  turned  back  to  the  veranda, 
and,  instead  of  going  up  to  her  room,  she  reclined 


Mam'   Linda 

in  a  hammock  stretched  between  two  of  the  huge, 
fluted  columns.  She  had  been  there  perhaps  half 
an  hour  when  her  heart  almost  stopped  pulsating 
as  she  caught  the  dull  beat  of  horses'  hoofs  up  the 
street.  Rising,  she  saw  a  horseman  rein  in  at  the 
gate  at  Dwight's.  It  was  Carson ;  she  knew  that  by 
the  way  he  dismounted  and  threw  the  rein  over  the 
gate-post. 

"Carson!"  she  called  out.  "Oh,  Carson,  I  want 
to  see  you!" 

He  heard,  and  came  along  the  sidewalk  to  meet 
her  at  the  gate  where  she  now  stood.  What  had 
come  over  him?  There  was  an  utter  droop  of  de- 
spondent weariness  upon  him,  and  then  as  he  drew 
near  she  saw  that  his  face  was  pale  and  haggard. 
For  a  moment  he  stood,  his  hand  on  the  gate  she 
was  holding  open,  and  only  stared. 

"Oh,  what  has  happened ?"  she  cried.  "I've  been 
waiting  for  you.  We  haven't  heard  a  word." 

In  a  tired,  husky  voice,  for  he  had  made  many  a 
speech  through  the  day,  he  told  her  of  Pete's  escape. 
"He's  still  hiding  somewhere  in  the  mountains,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  then  he  may  get  away  after  all!"  she  cried. 

Dwight  said  nothing,  seeming  to  avoid  her  great, 
staring,  anxious  eyes.  She  laid  her  hand  almost  un- 
consciously on  his  arm. 

"Don't  you  think  he  has  a  chance,  Carson?"  she 
repeated — "a  bare  chance?" 

"The  whole  mountain  is  surrounded,  and  they 
are  beating  the  woods,  covering  every  inch  of  the 
ground,"  he  said.  "It  is  now  only  a  question  of 
time.  They  will  wait  till  daybreak,  and  then  con- 

114 


Mam'   Linda 

tinue   till   they   have  found   him.     How   is   Mam' 
Linda?" 

"Nearly  dead,"  Helen  answered,  under  her 
breath. 

"And  my  mother?"  he  said. 

"She  is  only  worried,"  Helen  told  him.  "Your 
father  thinks  she  will  be  all  right  as  soon  as  she  is 
assured  of  your  return." 

"Only  worried?  Why,  he  sent  me  word  she  was 
nearly  dead,"  Carson  said,  with  a  feeble  flare  of  in- 
dignation. "  I  wanted  to  stay,  to  be  there  to  make 
one  final  effort  to  convince  them,  but  when  the 
message  reached  me,  and  things  were  at  a  stand- 
still anyway,  I  came  home,  and  now,  even  if  I  start- 
ed back  to-night,  I'd  likely  be  too  late.  He  tricked 
me — my  father  tricked  me!" 

"And  you  yourself?  Did  you  meet  that  —  Dan 
Willis  ?"  Helen  asked.  He  stared  at  her  hesitatingly 
for  an  instant,  and  then  said : 

"I  happened  not  to.  He  was  very  active  in  the 
chase  and  seemed  always  to  be  somewhere  else. 
He  killed  all  my  efforts."  Carson  leaned  heavily 
against  the  white  paling  fence  as  he  continued.  "As 
soon  as  I'd  talk  a  crowd  of  men  into  my  way  of 
thinking,  he'd  come  along  and  fire  them  with  fury 
again.  He  told  them  I  was  only  making  a  grand-  I 
stand  play  for  the  negro  vote,  and  they  swallowed  it.  ' 
They  swallowed  it  and  jeered  and  hissed  me  as  I  went 
along.  Garner  is  right.  I've  killed  every  chance  I 
ever  had  with  those  people.  But  I  don't  care." 

Helen  sighed.  "Oh,  Carson,  you  did  it  all  be- 
cause— because  I  felt  as  I  did  about  Pete.  I  know 
that  was  it." 

"5 


Mam'    Linda 

He  made  no  denial  as  he  stood  awkwardly  avoid- 
ing her  eyes. 

"I  shall  never,  never  forgive  myself,"  she  said,  in 
pained  accents.  "Mr.  Garner  and  all  your  friends 
say  that  your  election  was  the  one  thing  you  held 
desirable,  the  one  thing  that  would — would  thorough- 
ly reinstate  you  in  your  father's  confidence,  and  yet 
I — I — oh,  Carson  I  did  want  you  to  win!  I  wanted 
it — wanted  it — wanted  it!" 

"Oh,  well,  don't  bother  about  that,"  he  said,  and 
she  saw  that  he  was  trying  to  hide  his  own  disap- 
pointment. "I  admit  I  started  into  this  because — 
because  I  knew  how  keenly  you  felt  for  Linda,  but 
to-day,  Helen,  as  I  rode  from  mad  throng  to  mad 
throng  of  those  good  men  with  their  dishevelled 
hair  and  bloodshot  eyes,  their  very  souls  bent  to  that 
trail,  that  pitiful  trail  of  revenge,  I  began  to  feel  that 
I  was  fighting  for  a  great  principle,  a  principle  that 
you  had  planted  within  me.  I  gloried  in  it  for  its 
own  sake,  and  because  it  had  its  birth  in  your  sweet 
sympathy  and  love  for  the  unfortunate.  I  could 
never  have  experienced  it  but  for  you." 

"But  you  failed,"  Helen  almost  sobbed.  "You 
failed." 

"Yes,  utterly.  What  I've  done  amounted  to 
nothing  more  than  irritating  them.  Those  men, 
many  of  whom  I  love  and  admire,  were  wounded  to 
their  hearts,  and  I  was  only  keeping  their  sores  open 
with  my  fine-spun  theories  of  human  justice.  They 
will  learn  their  lesson  slowly,  but  they  will  learn  it. 
When  they  have  caught  and  lynched  poor,  stupid 
Pete,  they  may  learn  later  that  he  was  innocent,  and 
then  they  will  realize  what  I  was  trying  to  keep  them 

116 


Mam'    Linda 

from  doing.     They  will  be  friendly  to  me  then,  but 
Wiggin  will  be  in  office." 

"Yes,  my  father  thinks  this  thing  is  going  to  de- 
feat you."  Helen  sighed.  "  And,  Carson,  it's  killing 
me  to  think  that  I  am  the  prime  cause  of  it.  If  I'd 
had  a  man's  head  I'd  have  known  that  your  effort 
could  accomplish  nothing,  and  I'd  have  been  like 
Mr.  Garner  and  the  others,  and  asked  you  not  to 
mix  up  in  it;  but  I  couldn't  help  myself.  Mam' 
Linda  has  your  name  on  her  lips  with  every  breath. 
She  thinks  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  you,  and  that  you 
only  have  to  give  an  order  to  have  it  obeyed." 

"That's  the  pity  of  it,"  Carson  said,  with  a  sigh. 

At  this  juncture  there  was  the  sound  of  a  window- 
sash  sliding  upward,  and  old  D wight  put  out  his 
head. 

"Come  on  in!"  he  called  out.  "Your  mother  is 
awake  and  absolutely  refuses  to  believe  you  haven't 
a  dozen  bullet-holes  in  you." 

"All  right,  father,  I'm  coming,"  Carson  said,  and 
impulsively  he  held  out  his  hand  and  clasped  Helen's 
in  a  steady,  sympathetic  pressure. 

"Now,  you  go  to  bed,  little  girl,"  he  said,  more 
tenderly  than  he  realized.  In  fact,  it  was  a  term  he 
had  used  only  once  before,  long  before  her  brother's 
death.  "Pardon  me,"  he  pleaded;  "I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying.  I  —  I  was  worried  over  see- 
ing you  look  so  tired,  and  —  and  I  spoke  without 
thinking." 

"You  can  say  it  whenever  you  wish,  Carson,"  she 
said.     "  As  if  I  could  get  angry  at  you  after — after — 
But  she  did  not  finish,  for  with  her  hand  still  warmly 
clasping  his  fingers,  she  was  listening  to  a  distant 

117 


Mam'   Linda 

sound.     It  was  a  restless  human  tread  on  a  resound- 
ing floor. 

"It's  Mam'  Linda,"  Helen  said.  "She  walks  like 
that  night  and  day.  I  must  go  to  her  and — tell 
her  you  are  back,  but  oh,  how  can  I  ?  Good-night, 
Carson.  I'll  never  forget  what  you  have  done — 
never!" 


XV 


^FTER  an  almost  sleepless  night,  spent 
for  the  greater  part  in  despondent  re- 
flections over  his  failure  in  the  things 
to  which  he  had  directed  his  hopes 
and  energies,  Carson  rose  about  seven 
o'clock,  went  into  his  mother's  room  to  ask  how  she 
had  rested  through  the  night,  and  then  descended 
to  breakfast.  It  was  eight  o'clock  when  he  arrived 
at  the  office.  Garner  was  there  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
sweeping  a  pile  of  torn  papers  into  the  already  filled 
fireplace. 

"I'm  going  to  touch  a  match  to  this  the  first  rainy 
day — if  I  think  of  it,"  he  said.  "It's  liable  to  set 
the  roof  on  fire  when  it's  dry  as  it  is  now." 

"Any  news  from  the  mountains?"  Carson  asked, 
as  he  sat  down  at  his  desk. 

"  Yes ;  Pole  Baker  was  in  here  just  now."  Garner 
leaned  his  broom-handle  against  the  mantel-piece, 
and  stood  critically  eying  his  partner's  worn  face 
and  dejected  mien.  "He  said  the  mob,  or  mobs, 
for  there  are  twenty  factions  of  them,  had  certainly 
hemmed  Pete  in.  He  was  hiding  somewhere  on 
Elk  Knob,  and  they  hadn't  then  located  him.  Pole 
left  there  long  before  day  and  said  they  had  already 
set  in  afresh.  I  reckon  it  will  be  over  soon.  He  told 
me  to  keep  you  here  if  I  had  to  swear  out  a  writ  of 

9  IIQ 


Mam'    Linda 

dangerous  lunacy  against  you.  He  says  you  have 
not  only  killed  your  own  political  chances,  but  that 
you  couldn't  save  the  boy  if  you  were  the  daddy  of 
every  man  in  the  chase.  They've  smelled  blood  and 
they  want  to  taste  it." 

"You  needn't  worry  about  me,"  Carson  said,  de- 
jectedly. "  I  realize  how  helpless  I  was  yesterday, 
and  am  still.  There  was  only  one  thing  that  might 
have  been  done  if  we  had  acted  quickly,  and  that 
was  to  telegraph  the  Governor  for  troops." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  sanction  that ;  you  know  you 
wouldn't,"  said  Garner.  "  You  know  every  mother's 
son  of  those  white  men  is  acting  according  to  the 
purest  dictates  of  his  inner  soul.  They  think  they 
are  right.  They  believe  in  law,  and  while  I  am  a 
member  of  the  bar,  by  Heaven !  I  say  to  you  that  our 
whole  legal  system  is  rotten  to  the  core.  Politics 
will  clear  a  criminal  at  the  drop  of  a  hat.  A  dozen 
voters  can  jerk  a  man  from  life  imprisonment  to 
the  streets  of  this  town  by  a  single  telegram.  No, 
you  know  those  sturdy  men  over  there  think  they 
are  right,  and  you  would  not  be  the  cause  of  armed 
men  shooting  them  down  like  rabbits  in  a  fence 
corner." 

"No,  they  think  they  are  right,"  Carson  said. 
"  And  they  were  my  friends  till  this  came  up.  Anv 
mail?" 

"  I  haven't  been  to  the  post-office.  I  wish  you'd 
go.  You  need  exercise;  you  are  off  color — you  are 
as  yellow  as  a  new  saddle.  Drop  this  thing.  The 
Lord  Himself  can't  make  water  run  up-hill.  Quit 
thinking  about  it." 

Carson  went  out  into  the  quiet  street  and  walked 

120 


Mam'    Linda 

along  to  the  post-office.  At  the  intersection  of  the 
streets  near  the  Johnston  House,  on  any  ordinary 
day,  a  dozen  drays  and  hacks  in  the  care  of  negro 
drivers  would  have  been  seen,  and  on  the  drays  and 
about  the  hacks  stood,  as  a  rule,  many  idle  negro 
men  and  boys;  but  this  morning  the  spot  was  sig- 
nificantly vacant.  At  the  negro  barber-shop,  kept 
by  Buck  Black,  a  mulatto  of  marked  dignity  and  in- 
telligence for  one  of  his  race,  only  the  black  barbers 
might  be  seen,  and  they  were  not  lounging  about  the 
door,  but  stood  at  their  chairs,  their  faces  grave, 
their  tongues  unusually  silent.  They  might  be  ask- 
ing themselves  questions  as  to  the  possible  extent 
of  the  fires  of  race-hatred  just  now  raging — if  the 
capture  and  death  of  Pete  Warren  would  quench 
the  conflagration,  or  if  it  would  roll  on  towards  them 
like  the  licking  flames  of  a  burning  prairie — they 
might,  I  say,  ask  themselves  such  questions,  but  to 
the  patrons  of  their  trade  they  kept  discreet  silence. 
And  no  white  man  who  went  near  them  that  day 
would  ask  them  what  they  believed  or  what  they 
felt,  for  the  blacks  are  not  a  people  who  give  much 
thought  even  to  their  own  social  problems.  They 
had  leaned  for  many  generations  upon  white  guid- 
ance, and,  with  childlike,  hereditary  instinct,  they 
were  leaning  still. 

Finding  no  letters  of  importance  in  the  little  glass- 
faced  and  numbered  box  at  the  post-office,  Carson, 
sick  at  heart  and  utterly  discouraged,  went  up  to  the 
Club.  Here,  idly  knocking  the  balls  about  on  a  bill- 
iard-table, a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  was  Keith  Gordon. 

"Want  to  play  a  game  of  pool?"  he  asked. 

"Not  this  morning,  old  man,"  Carson  answered. 

121 


Mam'    Linda 

"Well,  I  don't  either,"  said  Keith.  "I  went  to 
the  bank  and  tried  to  add  up  some  figures  for  the 
old  man,  but  my  thinker  wouldn't  work.  It's  out 
of  whack.  That  blasted  nigger  Pete  is  the  prime 
cause  of  my  being  upset.  I  came  by  Major  Warren's 
this  morning.  Sister  feels  awfully  sorry  for  Mam' 
Linda,  and  asked  me  to  take  her  a  jar  of  jelly.  You 
know  old  colored  people  love  little  attentions  like 
that  from  white  people,  when  they  are  sick  or  in 
trouble.  Well "  —  Keith  held  up  his  hands,  the 
palms  outward — "I  don't  want  any  more  in  mine. 
I've  been  to  death-bed  scenes,  funerals,  wrecks  on 
railroads,  and  all  sorts  of  horrors,  but  that  was 
simply  too  much.  It  simply  beggars  description — 
to  see  that  old  woman  bowed  there  in  her  door  like 
a  dumb  brute  with  its  tongue  tied  to  a  stake.  It 
made  me  ashamed  of  myself,  though,  for  not  at  least 
trying  to  do  something.  I  glory  in  you,  old  man. 
You  failed,  but  you  tried.  By-the-way,  that's  the 
only  comfort  Mam'  Linda  has  had — the  only  thing. 
Helen  was  there,  the  dear  girl  —  and  to  think  her 
visit  home  has  to  be  like  this ! — she  was  there  trying 
to  soothe  the  old  woman,  but  nothing  that  was  said 
could  produce  anything  but  that  awful  groaning  of 
hers  till  Lewis  said  something  about  your  going  over 
there  yesterday,  and  that  stirred  her  up.  She  rose 
in  her  chair  and  walked  to  the  gate  and  folded  her 
big  arms  across  her  breast. 

' '  I  thank  God  young  marster  felt  fer  me  dat  way,' 
she  said.  '  He's  de  best  young  man  on  de  face  o'  de 
earth.  I '11.  go  down  ter  my  grave  blessing  'im  fer 
dis.  He's  got  er  soul  in  'im.  He  knows  how  old 
Mammy  Lindy  feels  en  he  was  tryin'  ter  help  her. 

122 


Mam'    Linda 

God  bless  'im!  He  couldn't  do  nothin',  but  he  tried 
— he  tried,  dough  everybody  was  holdin'  'im  back  en 
sayin'  it  would  spile  his  'lection.  Well,  if  it  do  harm 
'im,  it  will  show  dat  Gawd  done  turn  ergin  white  en 
black  bofe.'  I  came  away,"  Keith  finished,  after  a 
pause,  in  which  Carson  said  nothing.  "I  couldn't 
stand  it.  Helen  was  crying  like  a  child,  her  face  wet 
with  tears,  and  she  wasn't  trying  to  hide  it.  I  was 
looking  for  some  one  to  come  every  minute  with  the 
final  news,  and  I  didn't  want  to  face  that.  Good 
God,  old  man,  what  are  we  coming  to?  Historians,  . 
Northern  ones,  seem  to  think  the  days  of  slavery 
were  benighted,  but  God  knows  such  things  as  this  / 
never  happened  then.  Now,  did  it?" 

" No;  it's  terrible,"  Carson  agreed,  and  he  stepped 
to  a  window  and  looked  out  over  the  roofs  of  the 
near-by  stores  to  the  wagon-yard  beyond. 

"Well,  the  great  and  only,  the  truly  accepted 
one,"  Keith  went  on,  in  a  lighter  tone,  "  the  man  who 
did  us  all  up  brown,  Mr.  Earle  Sanders,  of  Augusta, 
has  unwittingly  chosen  a  gloomy  date  for  his  visit. 
He's  here,  installed  in  the  bridal -chamber  of  the 
Hotel  de  Johnston.  Helen  got  a  note  from  him  just 
as  I  was  leaving.  On  my  soul,  old  man — maybe  it's 
because  I  want  to  see  it  that  way — but,  really,  it 
didn't  seem  to  me  that  she  looked  exactly  elated, 
you  know,  like  I  imagined  she  would,  from  the  way 
the  local  gossips  pile  it  on.  You  know,  the  idea  struck 
me  that  maybe  she  is  not  really  engaged,  after  all." 

"She  is  worried;  she  is  not  herself  to-day,"  Car- 
son said,  coldly,  though  in  truth  his  blood  was  surg- 
ing hotly  through  his  veins.  It  had  come  at  last. 
The  man  who  was  to  rob  him  of  all  he  cared  for  in 

123 


Mam'    Linda 

life  \vas  at  hand.  Turning  from  Keith,  he  pretended 
to  be  looking  over  some  of  the  dog-eared  magazines 
in  the  reading-room,  and  then  feeling  an  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  be  alone  with  the  dull  pain  in  his  breast, 
he  waved  a  careless  signal  to  Keith  and  went  down 
to  the  street.  In  front  of  the  hotel  stood  a  pair  of 
sleek,  restive  bays  harnessed  to  a  new  top-buggy. 
They  were  held  by  the  owner  of  the  best  livery-stable 
in  the  town,  a  rough  ex-mountaineer. 

"Say,  Carson,"  the  man  called  out,  proudly, 
"you'll  have  to  git  up  early  in  the  morning  to  pro- 
duce a  better  yoke  of  thorough -breds  than  these. 
Never  been  driven  over  these  roads  before.  I  didn't 
intend  to  let  'em  out  fer  public  use  right  now,  but  a 
big,  rich  fellow  from  Augusta  is  here  sparkin',  and 
he  wanted  the  best  I  had  and  wouldn't  touch  any- 
thing else.  Money  wasn't  any  object.  He  turned 
up  his  nose  at  all  my  other  stock.  Gee!  look  at 
them  trim  legs  and  thighs — a  dead  match  as  two 
black-eyed  peas." 

"Yes,  they  are  all  right."  Carson  walked  on  and 
went  into  Blackburn's  store,  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  he  wanted  to  avoid  meeting  people  and  dis- 
cussing the  trouble  Pete  Warren  was  in,  or  hearing 
further  comments  on  the  stranger's  visit.  He  might 
have  chosen  a  better  retreat,  however,  for  in  a  group 
at  the  window  nearest  the  hotel  he  found  Blackburn, 
Garner,  Bob  Smith,  and  Wade  Tingle,  all  peering 
stealthily  out  through  the  dingy  glass  at  the  team 
Carson  had  just  inspected. 

"He'll  be  out  in  a  minute,"  Wade  was  saying,  in 
an  undertone.  "Quit  pushing  me,  Bob!  They  say 
he's  got  dead  loads  of  money." 

124 


Mam'    Linda 

"You  bet  he  has,"  Bob  declared;  "he  had  a  wad 
of  it  in  big  bills  large  enough  to  stuff  a  sofa-pillow 
with.  Ike,  the  porter,  who  trucked  his  trunk  up, 
said  he  got  a  dollar  tip.  The  head  waiter  is  expect- 
ing to  buy  a  farm  after  he  leaves.  Gee!  there  he 
comes!  Say,  Garner,  you  ought  to  know;  is  that  a 
brandy-and-soda  complexion  ? ' ' 

"No,  he  doesn't  drink  a  drop,"  answered  Garner. 
"Well,  he  looks  all  right,  as  well  as  I  can  see  through 
this  immaculate  window  with  my  eyes  full  of  spider- 
webs.  My,  what  clothes!  Say,  Bob,  is  that  style 
of  derby  the  thing  now?  It  looks  like  an  inverted 
milk-bucket.  Come  here,  Carson,  and  take  a  peep 
at  the  conqueror.  If  Keith  were  here  we'd  have 
a  quorum.  By  George,  there's  Keith  now!  He's 
watching  at  the  window  of  the  barber-shop.  Call 
him  over,  Blackburn.  Let's  have  him  here;  we  need 
more  pall-bearers." 

"Seems  to  me  you  boys  are  the  corpses,"  Black- 
burn jested.  "I'd  be  ashamed  to  let  a  clothing- 
store  dummy  like  that  beat  me  to  the  tank." 

Carson  had  heard  enough.  In  his  mood  and 
frame  of  mind  their  open  frivolity  cut  him  to  the 
quick.  Going  out,  unnoticed  by  the  others,  he  went 
to  his  office.  In  the  little,  dusty  consultation-room 
in  the  rear  there  was  an  old  leather  couch.  On  this 
he  threw  himself.  There  had  been  moments  in  his 
life  when  he  had-worn  the  crown  of  misery,  notably 
the  day  Albert  Warren  was  buried,  when,  on  ap- 
proaching Helen  to  offer  her  his  sympathies,  she  had 
turned  from  him  with  a  shudder.  That  had  been  a 
gloomy  hour,  but  this — he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands  and  lay  still.  On  that  day  a  faint  hope  had 

125 


Mam'    Linda 

vaguely  fluttered  within  him — a  hope  of  reforma- 
tion; a  hope  of  making  a  worthy  place  for  himself 
in  life  and  of  ultimately  winning  her  favor  and 
forgiveness.  But  now  it  was  all  over.  He  had 
actually  seen  with  his  own  eyes  the  man  who  was  to 
be  her  husband.  He  was  sure  now  that  the  report 
was  true.  The  visit  at  such  a  grave  crisis  con- 
firmed all  that  had  been  said.  Helen  had  tele- 
graphed him  of  her  trouble,  and  Sanders  had  made 
all  haste  to  reach  her  side. 


XVI 

[EHIND  the  dashing  bays  the  new- 
comer drove  down  to  Warren's.  On 
the  seat  beside  him  sat  a  negro  boy 
sent  from  the  livery  -  stable  to  hold 
I  the  horses.  Sanders  was  dressed  in  the 
height  of  fashion,  was  young,  of  the  blond  type, 
and  considered  handsome.  A  better  figure  no  man 
need  have  desired.  The  people  living  in  the  Warren 
neighborhood,  who  peered  curiously  out  of  windows, 
not  having  D wight's  affairs  at  heart,  indulged  in 
small  wonder  over  the  report  that  Helen  was  about 
to  accept  such  a  specimen  of  city  manhood  in  pref- 
erence to  Carson  or  any  of  "the  home  boys." 

Alighting  at  the  front  gate,  Sanders  went  to  the 
door  and  rang.  He  was  admitted  by  a  colored 
maid  and  shown  into  the  quaint  old  parlor  with  its 
tall,  gilt-framed,  pier-glass  mirrors  and  carved  ma- 
hogany furniture.  The  wide  front,  lace-curtained 
windows,  which  opened  on  a  level  with  the  veranda 
floor,  let  in  a  cooling  breeze  which  was  most  agree- 
able in  contrast  to  the  beating  heat  out-of-doors. 

He  had  only  a  few  minutes  to  wait,  for  Helen  had 
just  returned  from  a  visit  to  Linda's  cottage  and  was 
in  the  library  across  the  hall.  He  heard  her  coming 
and  stood  up,  flushing  expectantly,  an  eager  light 
flashing  in  his  eyes. 

127 


Mam'    Linda 

"I  am  taking  you  by  surprise,"  he  said,  as  he 
grasped  her  extended  hand  and  held  it  for  an  in- 
stant. 

"Well,  you  know  you  told  me  when  I  left,"  Helen 
said,  "that  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  get 
away  from  business  till  after  the  first  of  next  month, 
so  I  naturally  supposed — " 

"The  trouble  was" — he  laughed  as  he  stood  cour- 
teously waiting  for  her  to  sit  before  doing  so  himself — 
"the  trouble  was  that  I  didn't  know  myself  then  as 
I  do  now.  I  thought  I  could  wait  like  any  sensible 
man  of  my  age,  but  I  simply  couldn't,  Helen.  After 
you  left,  the  town  was  simply  unbearable.  I  seemed 
not  to  want  to  go  anywhere  but  to  the  places  to 
which  we  went  together,  and  there  I  suffered  a  reg- 
ular agony  of  the  blues.  The  truth  is,  I'm  killing 
two  birds  with  one  stone.  We  were  about  to  send 
our  lawyer  to  Chattanooga  to  settle  up  a  legal  mat- 
ter there,  and  I  persuaded  my  partner  to  let  me 
do  it.  So  you  see,  after  all,  I  shall  not  be  wholly 
idle.  I  can  run  up  there  from  here  and  back,  I 
believe,  in  the  same  day." 

"Yes,  it  is  not  far,"  Helen  answered.  "We  often 
go  up  there  to  do  shopping." 

"I'm  going  to  confess  something  else,"  Sanders 
said,  flushing  slightly.  "  Helen,  you  may  not  for- 
give me  for  it,  but  I've  been  uneasy." 

"  Uneasy  ?"  Helen  leaned  as  far  back  in  her  chair 
as  she  could,  for  he  had  bent  forward  till  his  wide, 
hungry  eyes  were  close  to  hers. 

"Yes,  I've  fought  the  feeling  every  day  and  night 
since  you  left.  At  times  my  very  common -sense 
would  seem  to  conquer  and  I'd  feel  a  little  better 

128 


Mam'    Linda 

about  it,  but  it  would  only  be  a  short  time  till  I'd 
be  down  in  the  dregs  again." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  Helen  asked,  half 
fearfully. 

"It  was  your  letters,  Helen,"  he  said,  his  hand- 
some face  very  grave  as  he  leaned  towards  her. 

"  My  letters  ?  Why,  I  wrote  as  often — even  often- 
er — than  I  promised,"  the  girl  said. 

"Oh,  don't  think  me  over-exacting,"  Sanders  im- 
plored her  with  eyes  and  voice.  "  I  know  you  did 
all  you  agreed  to  do,  but  somehow — well,  you  know 
you  seemed  so  much  like  one  of  us  down  there  that 
I  had  become  accustomed  to  thinking  of  you  as  al- 
most belonging  to  Augusta ;  but  your  letters  showed 
how  very  dear  Darley  and  its  people  are  to  you,  and 
I  was  obliged  to — well,  face  the  grim  fact  that  we 
have  a  strong  rival  here  in  the  mountains." 

"  I  thought  you  knew  that  I  adore  my  old  home," 
she  said,  simply. 

"Oh  yes,  I  know — most  people  do — but,  Helen, 
the  letter  you  wrote  about  the  dance  your  friends — 
your  '  boys, '  as  you  used  to  call  them — gave  you  at 
that  quaint  club,  why,  it  is  simply  a  piece  of  litera- 
ture. I've  read  it  over  and  over  time  after  time." 

"Oh,  I  only  wrote  as  I  felt,  out  of  a  full  heart," 
the  girl  said.  "When  you  meet  them,  and  know 
them  as  I  do,  you  will  not  wonder  at  my  fidelity — at 
my  enthusiasm  over  that  particular  tribute." 

Sanders  laughed.  "Well,  I  suppose  I  am  simply 
jealous  —  jealous  not  alone  for  myself,  but  for 
Augusta.  Why,  you  can't  imagine  how  you  are 
missed.  A  party  of  the  old  crowd  went  around  to 
your  aunt's  as  usual  the  Wednesday  following  your 

129 


Mam'   Linda 

departure,  but  we  were  so  blue  we  could  hardly  talk 
to  one  another.  Helen,  the  spirit  of  our  old  gather- 
ings was  gone.  Your  aunt  actually  cried,  and  your 
uncle  really  drank  too  much  brandy  and  soda." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  think  I  don't  miss  them  all," 
Helen  said,  deeply  touched.  "  I  think  of  them  every 
day.  It  was  only  that  I  had  been  away  so  long  that 
it  was  glorious  to  get  back  home — to  my  real  home 
again.  I  love  it  down  there;  it  is  beautiful;  you 
were  all  so  lovely  to  me,  but  this  here  is  different." 

"That's  what  I  felt  in  reading  your  letters," 
Sanders  said.  "A  tone  of  restful  content  and  hap- 
piness was  in  every  line  you  wrote.  Somehow,  I 
wanted  you,  in  my  selfish  heart,  to  be  homesick  for 
us  so  that  you  would" — the  visitor  drew  a  deep 
breath — "be  all  the  more  likely  to — to  consent  to 
live  there,  you  know,  some  day,  permanently." 

Helen  made  no  reply,  and  Sanders,  flushing  deep- 
ly, wisely  turned  the  subject,  as  he  rose  and  went  to 
a  window  and  drew  the  curtain  aside. 

"  Do  you  see  those  horses  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 
"  I  brought  them  thinking  I  might  prevail  on  you  to 
take  a  drive  with  me  this  morning.  I  have  set  my 
heart  on  seeing  some  of  the  country  around  the  town, 
and  I  want  to  do  it  with  you.  I  hope  you  can  go." 

"Oh,  not  to-day!  I  couldn't  think  of  it  to-day!" 
Helen  cried,  impulsively. 

"Not  to-day?"  he  said,  crestfallen. 

"No.  Haven't  you  heard  about  Mam'  Linda's 
awful  trouble?" 

"Oh,  that  is  her  son!"  Sanders  said.  "  I  heard 
something  of  it  at  the  hotel.  I  see.  She  really  must 
be  troubled." 

130 


Mam'    Linda 

"It  is  a  wonder  it  hasn't  killed  her,"  Helen 
answered.  "  I  have  never  seen  a  human  being  under 
such  frightful  torture." 

"  And  can  nothing  be  done  ?"  Sanders  asked.  "I'd 
really  like  to  be  of  use — to  help,  you  know,  in  some 
way." 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  done — nothing  that  can 
be  done,"  Helen  said.  "She  knows  that,  and  is 
simply  waiting  for  the  end." 

"It's  too  bad,"  Sanders  remarked,  awkwardly. 
"  Might  I  go  to  see  her  ?" 

"I  think  you'd  better  not,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
don't  believe  she  would  care  to  see  any  but  very  old 
friends.  I  used  to  think  I  could  comfort  her,  but 
even  I  fail  now.  She  is  insensible  to  anything  but 
that  one  haunting  horror.  She  has  tried  a  dozen 
times  to  go  over  to  the  mountains,  but  my  father 
and  Uncle  Lewis  have  prevented  it.  That  mob, 
angry  as  they  are,  might  really  kill  her,  for  she 
would  fight  for  her  young  like  a  tigress,  and  people 
wrought  up  like  those  are  mad  enough  to  do  any- 
thing." 

"  And  some  people  think  the  negro  may  not  really 
be  guilty,  do  they  not?"  Sanders  asked. 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  not,"  Helen  sighed.  "  I  feel  it;  I 
know  it." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  closing  gate,  and  Helen 
looked  out. 

"It  is  my  father,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  he  has 
heard  something." 

Leaving  her  guest,  she  went  out  to  the  steps. 
"Whose  turn-out?"  the  Major  asked,  with  admiring 
curiosity,  indicating  the  horses  and  buggy. 


Mam'    Linda 

"  Mr.  Sanders  has  come,"  she  said,  simply.  "  He's 
in  the  parlor.  Is  there  any  news  ?" 

"Nothing."  The  old  man  removed  his  hat  and 
wiped  his  perspiring  brow.  "  Nothing  except  that 
Carson  D wight  has  gone  over  there  on  a  fast  horse. 
Linda  sent  him  a  message,  begging  him  to  make  one 
more  effort,  and  he  went.  All  his  friends  tried 
to  stop  him,  but  he  dashed  out  of  town  like  a  mad- 
man. He  won't  accomplish  a  thing,  and  it  may  cost 
him  his  life,  but  he's  the  right  sort,  daughter.  He's 
got  a  heart  in  him  as  big  as  all  out-of-doors.  Black- 
burn told  him  Dan  Willis  was  over  there,  a  raging 
demon  in  human  shape,  but  it  only  made  Carson  the 
more  determined.  His  father  saw  him  and  ordered 
him  back,  and  was  speechless  with  fury  when  Carson 
simply  waved  his  hand  and  rode  on.  Go  back  to 
the  parlor.  I'll  join  you  in  a  minute." 

"Have  you  heard  anything?"  Sanders  asked,  as 
Helen  re-entered  the  room  and  stood  white  and 
distraught  before  him. 

She  hesitated,  her  shifting  glance  on  the  floor,  and 
then  she  stared  at  him  almost  as  one  in  a  dream. 
"  He  has  heard  nothing  except — except  that  Carson 
Dwight  has  gone  over  there.  He  has  gone.  Mam' 
Linda  begged  him  to  make  one  other  effort  and  he 
couldn't  resist  her.  She — she  was  good  to  his  moth- 
er and  to  him  when  he  was  a  child,  and  he  feels 
grateful.  She  thinks  he  is  the  only  one  that  can 
help.  She  told  me  last  night  that  she  believed  in 
him  as  she  once  believed  in  God.  He  can  do  nothing, 
but  he  knew  it  would  comfort  her  for  him  to  try." 

"This  Mr.  Dwight  is  one  of  your  —  your  old 
friends,  is  he  not?" 

132 


Mam'    Linda 

Sanders'  face  was  the  playground  of  conflicting 
emotions  as  he  stood  staring  at  her. 

"Yes,"  Helen  answered;  "one  of  my  best  and 
truest." 

He  has  undertaken  a  dangerous  thing,  has  he  not  ?" 
Sanders  managed  to  say. 

"Dangerous?"  Helen  shuddered.  "He  has  an 
enemy  there  who  is  now  seeking  his  life.-  They  are 
sure  to  meet.  They  have  already  quarrelled,  and 
— about  this  very  thing." 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  she  had  just  left  and 
Sanders  stood  near  her.  There  was  a  voice  in  the 
hall.  It  was  the  Major  ordering  a  servant  to  bring 
in  mint  julep,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  in  the 
parlor  hospitably  introducing  himself  to  the  visitor. 

Seeing  her  opportunity,  Helen  rose  and  left  them 
together.  She  went  up  to  her  room,  with  heavy, 
dragging  footsteps,  and  stood  at  the  window  over- 
looking the  D wight  garden  and  lawn. 

Carson  knew  that  Sanders  was  in  town,  she  told 
herself,  in  gloomy  self-reproach.  He  knew  his  rival 
was  with  her,  and  right  now  as  the  poor  boy  was 
speeding  on  to — his  death,  he  thought  Sanders  was 
making  love  to  her.  Helen  bit  her  quivering  lip 
and  clinched  her  ringers.  "  Poor  boy!"  she  thought, 
almost  with  a  sob,  "he  deserves  better  treatment 
than  that." 


XVII 

[N  his  escape  from  the  sheriff  and  his 
deputy,  Pete  Warren  ran  with  the  speed 
of  a  deer-hound  through  the  near-by 
woods.  Thinking  his  pursuers  were 
close  behind  him,  he  did  not  stop  even 
to  listen  to  their  footsteps.  Through  dell  and  fen, 
up  hill  and  down,  over  rocks  and  through  tangled 
undergrowth  he  forged  his  way,  his  tongue  lolling 
from  the  corner  of  his  gaping  mouth.  The  thorns 
and  briers  had  torn  gashes  in  his  cheeks,  neck,  and 
hands,  and  left  his  clothing  in  strips.  The  wild  glare 
of  a  hunted  beast  was  in  his  eyes.  The  land  was 
gradually  sloping  upward.  He  was  getting  upon  the 
mountain.  For  a  moment  the  distraught  creature 
paused,  bent  his  ear  to  listen  and  try  to  decide, 
rationally,  calmly,  which  was  the  better  plan,  to 
hide  in  the  caverns  and  craggy  recesses  of  the 
frowning  heights  above  or  speed  onward  over  more 
level  ground.  For  a  moment  the  drumlike  pound- 
ing of  his  heart  was  all  the  sound  he  heard,  and  then 
the  blast  of  a  hunter's  horn  broke  the  stillness,  not 
two  hundred  yards  away,  and  was  thrown  back  in 
reverberating  echoes  from  the  mountain-side.  This 
was  followed  by  a  far-off  answering  shout,  the  report 
of  a  signal-gun,  and  then  the  mellow,  terrifying  bay- 
ing of  blood-hounds  fell  upon  his  ears.  Pete  stood 


Mam'   Linda 

erect,  his  knees  quivering.  No  thought  of  prayer 
passed  through  his  brain.  Prayer,  to  his  mind,  was 
only  a  series  of  empty  vocal  sounds  heard  chiefly 
in  churches  where  black  men  and  women  stood  or 
knelt  in  their  best  clothes,  and  certainly  not  for 
emergencies  like  this,  where  granite  heavens  were 
closing  upon  stony  earth  and  he  was  caught  between. 

Suddenly  bending  lower,  and  fresher  for  the 
second  wind  he  had  got,  he  sped  onward  again, 
choosing  the  valley  rather  than  the  steeper  moun- 
tain-side. Shouts,  gun  reports,  horn-blasts,  and  the 
baying  of  the  hounds  now  followed  him.  Presently 
he  came  to  a  clear  mountain  creek  about  twenty 
feet  wide  and  not  deeper  anywhere  than  his  waist, 
and  in  many  places  barely  covering  the  slimy  brown 
stones  over  which  it  flowed.  Here,  as  if  by  inspira- 
tion, came  the  remembrance  of  some  story  he  had 
heard  about  a  pursued  negro  managing  to  elude  the 
scent  of  blood-hounds  by  taking  to  water,  and  into 
the  icy  stream  Pete  plunged,  and,  slipping,  stum- 
bling, falling,  he  made  his  way  onward. 

But  his  reason  told  him  this  slow  method  really 
would  not  benefit  him,  for  his  pursuers  would  soon 
catch  up  and  see  him  from  the  banks.  He  had 
waded  up  the  stream  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
when  he  came  to  a  spot  where  the  stout  branches  of 
a  sturdy  leaning  beech  hung  down  within  his  reach. 
The  idea  which  came  to  him  was  worthy  of  a  white 
man's  brain,  for,  pulling  on  the  bough  and  finding  it 
firm,  he  decided  upon  the  original  plan  of  getting  out 
of  the  water  there,  where  his  trail  would  be  lost  to 
sight  or  scent,  and  climbing  into  the  dense  foliage 
above.  His  pursuers  might  not  think  to  look  up- 


Mam'    Linda 

ward  at  exactly  that  spot,  and  the  hounds,  bent  on 
catching  the  scent  from  the  ground  where  he  landed, 
would  speed  onward,  farther  and  farther  away.  At 
all  events  it  was  worth  the  trial. 

With  quivering  hands  he  drew  the  bough  down 
till  its  leaves  sank  under  the  water.  It  bore  his 
weight  well  and  from  it  he  climbed  to  the  massive 
trunk  and  higher  upward,  till,  in  a  fork  of  the  tree, 
he  rested,  noticing,  with  a  throb  of  relief,  that  the 
bough  had  righted  itself  and  hung  as  before  above 
the  surface  of  the  stream.  On  came  the  dogs;  he 
could  not  hear  them  now,  for,  intent  upon  their  work, 
they  made  no  sound,  but  the  hoarse,  maddened 
voices  of  men  under  their  guidance  reached  his  ears. 
The  swish  through  the  undergrowth,  the  patter,  as 
of  rain  on  dry  leaves,  as  their  claws  hurled  the 
ground  behind  them,  the  snuffing  and  sneezing — 
that  was  the  hounds.  Closer  and  closer  Pete  hugged 
the  tree,  hardly  breathing,  fearing  now  that  the 
water  dripping  from  his  clothing  or  the  bruised 
leaves  of  the  bough  might  betray  his  presence. 
But  the  hounds,  one  on  either  side  of  the  stream, 
their  noses  to  the  earth,  dashed  on.  Pete  caught 
only  a  gleam  of  their  sleek,  dun  coats  and  they  were 
gone.  Behind  them,  panting,  followed  a  dozen  men. 
In  his  fear  of  being  seen,  Pete  dared  not  even  look 
at  their  inflamed  faces.  With  closed  eyes  pressed 
against  his  wet  coat-sleeve,  he  clung  to  his  place, 
a  hunted  thing,  neither  fish,  fowl,  nor  beast,  and  yet, 
like  them  all,  a  creature  of  the  wilderness,  endowed 
with  the  instinct  of  self-preservation. 

"They  will  run  'im  down!"  he  heard  a  man  say. 
"Them  dogs  never  have  failed.  The  black  devil 

136 


Mam'   Linda 

thought  he'd  throw  'em  off  by  taking  to  water. 
He  didn't  know  we  had  one  for  each  bank." 

On  ran  the  men,  the  sound  of  their  progress  be- 
coming less  and  less  audible  as  they  receded.  Was 
he  safe  now  ?  Pete's  slow  intelligence  answered  no. 
He  was  still  fully  alive  to  his  danger.  He  might 
stay  there  for  awhile,  but  not  for  long.  Already, 
perhaps  owing  to  his  desperate  running,  he  had  an 
almost  maddening  thirst,  a  thirst  which  the  sheer 
sight  of  the  cool  stream  so  near  tantalized.  Should 
he  descend,  satisfy  his  desire,  and  attempt  to  regain 
his  place  of  hiding?  No,  for  he  might  not  seclude 
himself  so  successfully  the  next  time.  Then,  with 
his  face  resting  on  his  arm,  he  began  to  feel  drowsy. 
Twisting  his  body  about,  he  finally  found  himself  in  a 
position  in  which  he  could  recline  still  close  to  the 
tree  and  rest  a  little,  though  his  feet  and  legs, 
surcharged  with  blood,  were  painfully  weighted 
downward.  The  forest  about  him  was  very  quiet. 
Some  bluebirds  above  his  head  were  singing  merrily. 
A  gray  squirrel  with  a  fuzzy  tail  was  perched  in- 
quiringly on  the  brown  bough  of  a  near-by  pine.  Pete 
reclined  thus  for  several  minutes,  and  then  the  ob- 
jects about  him  appeared  to  be  in  a  blur.  The  far 
off  shouts,  horn-blasts,  and  gun  reports  beat  less 
insistently  on  his  tired  brain,  and  then  he  found 
himself  playing  with  a  kitten — the  queerest,  most 
amusing  kitten — in  the  sunlight  in  front  of  his 
mother's  door. 

He  must  have  slept  for  hours,  for  when  he  opened 
his  eyes  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  top  of  a 
distant  hill.  He  tried  to  draw  his  aching  legs  up 
higher  and  felt  stinging  pricks  of  pain  from  his  hips 


Mam'    Linda 

to  his  toes,  as  his  blood  leaped  into  circulation  again. 
After  several  efforts  he  succeeded  in  standing  on  the 
bough.  To  his  pangs  of  thirst  were  now  added  those 
of  hunger.  For  hours  he  stood  thus.  He  saw  the 
light  of  day  die  out,  first  on  the  landscape  and  later 
from  the  clear  sky.  Now,  he  told  himself,  under 
cover  of  night,  he  would  escape,  but  something  hap- 
pened to  prevent  the  attempt.  Through  the  dark- 
ness he  saw  the  flitting  lights  of  many  pine  torches. 
They  passed  to  and  fro  under  the  trees,  sometimes 
quite  near  him,  and  as  far  as  he  could  see  up  the 
mountain-sides  they  flickered  like  the  sinister  night- 
eyes  of  his  doom.  He  stood  till  he  felt  as  if  he  could 
do  so  no  longer,  and  then  he  got  down  on  the  bough 
as  before,  and  after  hours  of  conscious  hunger  and 
thirst  and  cramping  pains  he  slept  again.  Thus  he 
passed  that  night,  and  when  the  golden  rays  of  sun- 
light came  piercing  the  gray  mountain  mists  and 
flooding  the  landscape  with  its  warm  glory,  Pete 
Warren,  hearing  the  voices  of  sleepless  revenge,  now 
more  numerous  and  harsh  and  packed  with  hate — 
hearing  them  on  all  sides  from  far  and  near — dared 
not  stir.  He  remained  perched  in  his  leafy  nook  like 
some  half-knowing,  primeval  thing,  avoiding  the 
flint-tipped  arrows  of  the  high-cheeked,  straight- 
haired  men  lurking  beneath. 


XVIII 

CARSON  DWIGHT  remained  two  days 
in  the  vicinity  of  his  farm  waiting 
gloomily  for  the  discovery  and  arrest 
of  Pete  Warren,  his  sole  hope  being 
that  at  the  last  grewsome  moment  he 
might  prevail  on  the  distraught  man-hunters  to  listen 
to  a  final  appeal  for  law  and  order.  He  was  forced, 
however,  to  return  to  Darley,  feeling  sure,  as  did  the 
others,  that  Pete  was  hiding  in  some  undiscovered 
place  in  the  mountains,  or  shrewd  and  deft  enough 
to  avoid  the  approach  of  man  or  hound.  But  it 
would  not  be  for  long,  the  hunters  told  themselves, 
for  the  entire  spot  was  surrounded  and  well  guarded 
and  they  would  starve  him  out. 

"The  gang"  breathed  more  freely  when  they  saw 
Carson  appear  in  the  doorway  of  the  den  on  the 
night  of  his  return,  and  learned  that  through  some 
miracle  he  had  failed  to  meet  Dan  Willis,  though  not 
one  of  them  was  favorably  impressed  by  the  out- 
ward appearance  of  their  leader.  His  eyes,  in  their 
darkened  sockets,  gleamed  like  despondent  fires ;  on 
his  tanned  cheeks  hectic  flushes  had  appeared  and  his 
hands  quivered  as  if  from  nervous  exhaustion.  Not 
a  man  among  them  dared  reproach  him  for  the  fur- 
ther and  futile  political  mistake  he  had  made.  He 
was  a  ruined  man,  and  yet  they  admired  him  the 


Mam'    Linda 

more  as  they  looked  down  on  him,  begrimed  with 
the  dregs  of  his  failure.  Garner's  opinion,  to  himself 
expressed,  was  that  D wight  was  a  failure  only  on  the 
surface,  but  that  it  was  the  surface  which  counted 
everywhere  except  in  heaven,  and  there  no  one  knew 
what  sort  of  coin  would  be  current.  Garner  loved 
him.  He  loved  him  for  his  hopeless  fidelity  to  Helen, 
for  his  firm-ja\ved  clinging  to  a  mere  principle,  such 
as  trying  to  keep  an  old  negro  woman  who  had 
faith  in  him  from  breaking  her  heart,  for  his  risk- 
ing death  itself  to  obtain  full  justice  for  the  black 
boy  who  was  his  servant.  Yes,  Garner  mused,  Car- 
son certainly  deserved  a  better  deal  all  round,  but 
deserving  a  thing  according  to  the  highest  ethics, 
and  getting  it  according  to  the  lowest  were  dif- 
ferent. 

The  following  night  there  was  a  queer,  secret 
meeting  of  negroes  in  the  town.  Stealthily  they  left 
\their  cabins  and  ramshackle  homes,  and  one  by  one 
they  glided  through  the  darkest  streets  and  alleys 
to  the  house  of  one  Neb  Wynn,  a  man  who  had 
acquired  his  physical  being  and  crudely  unique 
personality  from  the  confluence  of  three  distinct 
streams  of  blood — the  white,  the  Cherokee  Indian, 
and  the  negro.  He  owned  and  drove  a  dray  on 
the  streets  of  the  town,  and  being  economical  he 
had  accumulated  enough  means  to  build  the  two- 
story  frame  (not  yet  painted)  house  in  which  he 
lived.  The  lower  floor  was  used  as  a  negro  res- 
taurant, which  Neb's  wife  managed,  the  upper  was 
devoted  to  the  family  bedroom,  a  guest-chamber  for 
any  one  who  wished  to  spend  the  night,  and  a  fair- 
sized  "hall,"  with  windows  on  the  street, which  was 

140 


Mam'    Linda 

rented  to  colored  people  for  any  purpose,  such  as 
dances,  lodge  meetings  or  church  sociables. 

It  was  in  this  room,  where  no  light  burned,  that 
the  negroes  assembled.  Indeed,  no  sort  of  illumina- 
tion was  used  below,  and  when  a  negro  who  had 
been  secretly  summoned  reached  the  spot,  he  assured 
himself  that  no  one  was  in  sight,  and  then  he  ap- 
proached the  restaurant  door  on  tiptoe,  rapped 
twice  with  his  knuckles,  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
rapped  three  times.  Thereupon  Neb,  with  his  ear 
to  the  key-hole  on  the  inside,  cautiously  opened  the 
door  and  drew  the  applicant  within,  and,  closing  the 
shutter  softly,  asked,  "What  is  the  password?" 

"Mercy,"  was  the  whispered  reply. 

"What's  the  countersign  ?" 

"Peace  an'  good -will  to  all  men.  Thy  will  be 
done.  Amen." 

"All  right,  I  know  you,"  Neb  would  say.  "Go 
up  ter  de  hall  en  set  down,  but  mind  you,  don't 
speak  one  word!" 

And  thus  they  gathered — the  men  who  were  con- 
sidered the  most  substantial  colored  citizens  of  the 
town.  About  ten  o'clock  Neb  crept  cautiously  up 
the  narrow  stairs,  entered  the  room,  and  sat  down. 

' '  We  are  all  here, ' '  he  announced .  ' '  Brother  Hard- 
castle,  I'm  done  wid  my  part.  I  ain't  no  public 
speaker;  I'll  leave  de  rest  ter  you." 

A  figure  in  one  of  the  corners  rose.  He  was  the 
leading  negro  minister  of  the  place.  He  cleared  his 
throat  and  then  said:  "I  would  open  with  prayer, 
but  to  pray  we  ought  to  stand  or  kneel,  and  either 
thing  would  make  too  much  disturbance.  We  can  only 
ask  God  in  our  hearts,  brothers,  to  be  with  us  here  in 

141 


Mam'    Linda 

the  darkness,  and  help  lead  us  out  of  our  trouble; 
help  us  to  decide  if  we  can,  singly  or  in  a  body,  what 
course  to  pursue  in  the  grave  matter  that  faces  our 
race.  We  are  being  sorely  tried,  tried  almost  past 
endurance,  but  the  God  of  the  white  man  is  the  God 
of  the  black.  Through  a  dark  skin  the  light  of  a  pure 
heart  shines  as  far  in  an  appeal  for  help  towards  the 
throne  of  Heaven  as  through  a  white.  I'm  not  pre- 
pared to  make  a  speech.  I  can't.  I  am  too  full  of 
sorrow  and  alarm.  I  have  just  left  the  mother  of 
the  accused  boy  and  the  sight  of  her  suffering  has 
upset  me.  I  have  no  harsh  words,  either,  for  the 
white  men  of  this  town.  Every  self-respecting  col- 
ored citizen  has  nothing  but  words  of  praise  for  the 
good  white  men  of  the  South,  and  in  my  heart,  I 
can't  much  blame  the  men  of  the  mountains  who  are 
bent  on  revenge,  for  the  crime  perpetrated  by  one 
of  our  race  was  horrible  enough  to  justify  their  rage. 
It  is  only  that  we  want  to  see  full  justice  done  and 
the  absolutely  innocent  protected.  I  have  been 
talking  to  Brother  Black  to-day,  and  I  feel — " 

He  broke  off,  for  a  hiss  of  warning  as  low  as  the 
rattle  of  a  hidden  snake  escaped  Neb  Wynn's  lips. 
On  the  brick  sidewalk  below  the  steps  of  some  soli- 
tary passer-by  rang  crisply  on  the  still  night  air.  It 
died  away  in  the  distance  and  again  all  was  quiet. 

"Now  you  kin  go  on,"  Neb  said.  "We  des  got 
to  be  careful,  gen'men.  Ef  a  meetin'  lak  dis  was 
knowed  ter  be  on  tap  de  last  one  of  us  wrould  be  in 
trouble,  en  dey  would  pull  my  house  down  fust. 
You  all  know  dat." 

"You  are  certainly  right,"  the  preacher  resumed. 
"I  was  only  going  to  call  on  Brother  Black  to  say 

142 


Mam'    Linda 

something  in  a  line  with  the  talk  I  had  with  him  to- 
day. He's  got  the  right  idea." 

"I'm  not  a  speaker,"  Buck  Black  began,  as  he 
stood  up.  "A  man  who  runs  a  barber-shop  don't 
have  any  too  much  time  ter  read  and  study,  but  I've 
giv'  dis  subject  a  lot  o'  thought  fust  an'  last.  I  al- 
most giv'  up  after  dat  big  trouble  in  Atlanta;  I 
'lowed  dar  wasn't  no  way  out  of  we-alls'  plight, 
but  I  think  diffunt  now.  A  white  man  made  me 
see  it.  I  read  some'n'  yesterday  in  the  biggest 
paper  in  dis  State.  It  was  written  by  de  editor 
an'  er  big  owner  in  it.  Gen 'men,  it  was  de  fust 
thing  I've  seed  dat  seemed  ter  me  ter  come  fum 
on  high  as  straight  as  a  bolt  of  lightnin'.  Brother 
black  men,  dat  editor  said  dat  de  white  race  had 
tried  de  whip-lash,  de  rope,  en  de  firebrand  fer  forty 
years  en  de  situation  was  still  as  bad  as  ever.  He 
said  de  question  never  would  be  plumb  settled  till 
de  superior  race  extend  a  kind,  helpful  hand  ter  de 
ignorant  black  an'  lead  'im  out  er  his  darkness  en  sin 
en  crime.  Gen 'men,  dem  words  went  thoo  en  thoo 
me.  I  knowed  dat  man  myself,  when  I  lived  in 
Atlanta;  I've  seed  his  honest  face  en  know  he  meant 
what  he  said.  He  said  it  was  time  ter  blaze  er  new 
trail,  er  trail  dat  hain't  been  blazed  befo' — er  trail  of 
love  en  forgiveness  en  pity,  er  trail  de  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  would  blaze  ef  he  was  here  in  de  midst  o'  dis 
struggle." 

"  Dat  so,  dat  so!"  Neb  Wynn  exclaimed,  in  a  rasp- 
ing whisper.  "Gawd  know  dat  de  trufe." 

"An'  I'm  here  ter-night,"  Buck  Black  continued, 
"ter  say  ter  you  all  dat  I'm  ready  ter  join  fo'ces  wid 
white  men  like  dat.  De  old  time  white  man  was  de 


Mam'    Linda 

darky's  best  friend ;  he  owned  'im,  but  he  helped  'im. 
In  de  old  slave  days  black  crimes  lak  our  race  is 
guilty  of  ter-day  was  never  heard  of — never  nowhar! 
Dar's  er  young  white  man  here  in  dis  town,  too,  dat 
I  love,"  Black  continued,  after  a  pause.  "  I  needn't 
mention  his  name ;  I  bound  you  it  is  writ  on  every 
heart  in  dis  room.  You  all  know  what  he  did  yes- 
terday an'  day  befo' — in  spite  er  all  de  argument  en 
persuasions  of  his  friends  dat  is  backin'  'im  in  politics, 
he  went  out  dar  ter  de  mountains  in  de  thick  o'  it. 
I  got  it  straight.  I  seed  er  man  fum  dar  yesterday, 
en  he  said  Marse  Carson  D wight  was  out  'mongst 
dem  men  pleadin'  wid  'em  ter  turn  Pete  over  ter  him 
en  de  law.  He  promised  ter  give  er  bond  dat  was 
big  enough  ter  wipe  out  all  he  owned  on  earth,  ef 
dey'd  only  spare  de  boy's  life  en  give  'im  a  trial. 
Dey  say  Dan  Willis  wanted  ter  shoot  'im,  but 
Willis's  own  friends  wouldn't  let  'im  git  nigh  'im. 
I  was  in  my  shop  last  night  when  he  come  in  town 
an'  axed  me  ter  shave  'im  up  so  he  could  go  home  en 
pacify  his  mother.  She  was  sick  en  anxious  about 
him.  He  got  in  my  chair.  Gen 'men,  I  used  ter 
brag  beca'se  I  shaved  General  John  B.  Gordon  once, 
when  he  was  up  here  speakin',  but  fum  now  on  my 
boast  will  be  shavin'  Marse  Carson  Dwight.  He 
got  in  de  chair  an'  laid  back  so  tired  he  looked  lak 
er  dyin'  man.  He  was  all  spattered  fum  head  ter 
foot  wid  mud  dat  he'd  walked  an'  rid  thoo.  I  was 
so  sorry  fer  'im  I  could  hardly  do  my  work.  I  was 
cryin'  half  de  time,  dough  he  didn't  see  it,  'ca'se  he 
jes  layed  dar  wid  his  eyes  closed.  Hate  de  white 
race  lak  some  say  we  do  ?"  Black's  voice  rose  higher 
and  quivered.  "No,  suh,  I'll  never  hate  de  race  dat 

144 


Mam'   Linda 

fetched  dat  white  man  in  dis  world.  When  he  got 
out  de  chair  de  fus  thing  he  ax  was  ef  I'd  heard  how 
Mam'  Lindy  was.  I  told  'im  she  was  pretty  bad  off, 
worried  in  her  mind  lak  she  was ;  den  he  turn  f um 
de  glass  whar  he  was  tyin'  his  necktie  wid  shaky 
fingers  en  said:  'I  thought  I  might  fetch  'er  some 
hope,  Buck,  but  I  done  give  up.  Ef  I  only  had  Pete 
in  my  charge  safe  in  er  good  reliable  jail  I  could  free 
'im,  fer  I  don't  believe  he  killed  dem  folks.' ' 

Buck  Black  paused.  It  was  plain  that  his  hearers 
were  much  affected,  though  no  sound  at  all  escaped 
them.  The  speaker  was  about  to  resume,  when  he 
was  prevented  by  a  sharp  rapping  on  the  stair  below. 

"Hush!"  Neb  Wynn  commanded,  in  a  warning 
whisper.  He  crept  on  tiptoe  across  the  carpetless 
room,  out  into  the  hallway,  and  leaned  over  the 
baluster. 

"Who  dat?"  he  asked,  in  a  calm,  raised  voice. 

"It's  me,  Neb.  I  want  ter  see  you.  Come 
down!" 

"  It's  my  wife/'  Neb  informed  the  breathless  room. 
"Sounds  lak  she's  scared  'bout  some'n'.  Don't  say 
er  word  till  I  git  back.  Mind,  you  folks  got  ter  be 
careful  ter-night." 

He  descended  the  creaking  stairs  to  the  landing 
below.  They  caught  the  low  mumbling  of  his  voice 
intermingled  with  the  perturbed  tones  of  his  wife, 
and  then  he  crept  back  to  them,  strangely  silent  they 
thought,  for  after  he  had  resumed  his  seat  against 
the  wall  in  the  dark  human  circle,  they  heard  only  his 
heavy  breathing.  Fully  five  minutes  passed,  and 
then  he  sighed  as  if  throwing  something  off  his 
mind,  some  weight  of  perplexing  indecision. 


Mam'    Linda 

"Well,  go  on  wid  what  you  was  sayin',  Brother 
Black,"  he  said.  "I  reckon  our  meetin'  won't  be 
'sturbed." 

"I  almost  got  to  what  I  was  coming  to,"  Buck 
Black  continued,  rising  and  leaning  momentously 
on  the  back  of  his  chair.  "  I  was  leadin'  up  to  a 
gre't  surprise,  gen'men.  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  faith- 
ful friends  a  secret,  a  secret  which,  ef  it  was  out  dat 
we  knowed  it,  might  hang  us  all.  So  far  it  rests  wid 
des  me  an'  a  black  'oman  dat  kin  be  trusted,  my 
wife.  Gen'men,  I  know  whar  Pete  Warren  is.  I  kin 
lay  my  hands  on  'im  any  time.  He's  right  here  in 
dis  town  ter-night." 

A  subdued  burst  of  surprise  rose  from  the  dark 
room,  then  all  was  still,  so  still  that  the  speaker's 
grasp  of  his  chair  gave  forth  a  harsh,  rasping  sound. 

"  Yes,  my  wife  seed  'im  in  de  ol'  lumber-yard  back 
o'  our  house,  en  he  was  sech  er  sight  ter  look  at  dat 
she  mighty  nigh  went  out'ii  'er  senses.  He  was  all 
cut  in  de  face,  en  his  clothes  en  shoes  was  des  hangin' 
ter  'im  by  strings,  en  his  eyes  was  'most  poppin'  out'n 
his  head.  He  was  starvin'  ter  death — hadn't  had  a 
bite  t'  eat  since  he  run  off.  When  she  seed  'im  it  was 
about  a  hour  by  sun,  en  he  begged  'er  to  fetch  'im 
some  victuals.  Gen'men,  he  was  so  hungry  dat  she 
say  he  licked  her  han's  lak  er  dog,  en  cried  en  tuck 
on  powerful.  She  come  home  en  told  me,  en  ax 
me  what  ter  do.  Gen'men,  'fo'  God  on  high  I  want 
ter  do  my  duty  ter  my  race  en  also  to  de  white,  but  I 
couldn't  see  any  safe  way  ter  meddle.  De  white 
folks,  some  of  'em,  anyway,  say  dat  we  aid  en  en- 
tourage crimes  'mongst  our  people,  en  while  my 
heart  was  bleedin'  fer  dat  boy  en  his  folks,  I  couldn't 

146 


Mam'   Linda 

underhanded  he'p  'im  widout  goin'  ter  de  men  in 
power  accordin'  ter  law." 

"  And  you  did  right,"  spoke  up  the  minister.  "  As 
much  as  I  pity  the  boy,  I  would  have  acted  as  you 
have  done.  He  is  accused  of  murder  and  is  an 
escaped  prisoner.  To  decide  that  he  was  innocent 
and  help  him  escape  is  exactly  what  we  are  blaming 
his  pursuers  for  doing — taking  the  law  into  hands  not 
sanctioned  by  authority.  There  is  only  one  thing 
that  can  decide  the  matter,  and  that  is  the  decision 
of  a  judge  and  jury." 

"Dat's  exactly  de  way  I  looked  at  it,"  said  Black, 
"en  so  I  tol'  my  wife  not  ter  go  nigh  'im  ergin.  I 
knowed  dis  meetin'  was  up  fer  ter-night,  en  I  des 
thought  I'd  fetch  it  here  en  lay  it  'fo'  you  all  en  take 
er  vote  on  it." 

"A  good  idea,"  said  the  minister  from  his  chair. 
"And,  brethren,  it  seems  to  me  we,  as  a  body  of 
representative  negroes  of  this  town,  have  now  a 
golden  opportunity  to  prove  our  actual  sincerity  to 
the  white  race.  As  you  say,  Brother  Black,  we  have 
been  accused  of  remaining  inactive  when  a  criminal 
was  being  pursued  for  crimes  against  the  white 
people.  If  we  can  agree  on  it  to  a  unit,  and  can  turn 
the  prisoner  over  now  that  all  efforts  of  the  whites 
to  apprehend  him  have  failed,  our  act  will  be  flashed 
all  round  the  civilized  world  and  give  the  lie  to  the 
charge  in  question.  Do  you  think,  Brother  Black, 
that  Pete  Warren  is  still  hiding  near  your  house?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answrered  the  barber.  "  He  would  be 
afeard  ter  leave  dat  place,  en  I  reckon  he's  waitin' 
dar  now  fer  my  wife  ter  fetch  'im  some'n'  ter  eat." 

"Well,  then,  all  we've  got  to  do  is  to  see  if  we  can 


Mam'    Linda 

thoroughly  agree  on  the  plan  proposed.  I  suppose 
one  of  the  first  things,  if  we  do  agree  to  turn  him 
over  to  the  law,  is  to  consult  with  Mr.  Carson  Dwight 
and  see  if  he  can  devise  a  way  of  acting  with  perfect 
safety  to  the  prisoner  and  all  concerned.  If  he  can, 
our  duty  is  clear." 

"Yes,  he's  de  man,  God  knows  dat,"  Black  said, 
enthusiastically.  "He  won't  let  us  run  no  risk." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  minister,  who  had  the 
floor,  "  let  us  put  it  to  a  vote.  Of  course,  it  must  be 
unanimous.  We  can't  act  on  a  thing  as  dangerous 
as  this  without  a  thorough  agreement.  Now,  you 
have  all  heard  the  plan  proposed.  Those  in  favor 
make  it  known  by  standing  up  as  quietly  as  you  pos- 
sibly can,  so  that  I  may  count  you." 

Very  quietly,  for  so  many  acting  in  concert,  men 
on  all  sides  of  the  hall  stood  up.  The  minister  then 
began  to  grope  round  the  room,  touching  with  his 
hands  the  standing  voters. 

"Who's  this?"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  when  he 
reached  Neb  Wynn's  chair  and  lowered  his  hands  to 
the  drayman,  who  was  the  only  one  not  standing. 

"It's  me,"  Neb  answered;  "me,  dat's  who — me!" 

"  Oh!"     There  was  an  astonished  pause. 

"Yes,  it's  me.  I  ain't  votin'  yo'  way,"  Neb  said. 
"You  all  kin  act  fer  yo 'selves.  I  know  what  I'm 
about." 

"But  what's  de  matter  wid  you?"  Buck  Black 
demanded,  rather  sharply.  "All  dis  time  you  been 
de  most  anxious  one  ter  do  some'n',  en  now  when  we 
got  er  chance  ter  act  wid  judgment  en  caution,  all 
in  a  body,  en,  as  Brother  Hardcastle  say,  ter  dc 
honor  of  ou'  race,  why  you  up  en — " 

148 


Mam*    Linda 

"Hold  on,  des  keep  yo'  shirt  on!"  said  Neb,  in  a 
queer,  tremulous  voice.  "Gen 'men,  I  ain't  placed 
des  zactly  de  same  es  you-all  is.  I  don't  want  ter 
tek  de  whole  'sponsibility  on  my  shoulders,  en  I 
don't  intend  to." 

"You  are  not  taking  it  all  on  your  shoulders, 
brother,"  said  the  minister,  calmly;  "we  are  acting 
in  a  body." 

"No,  it's  all  on  me,"  Neb  said.  "You  said,  Buck 
Black,  dat  Pete  was  in  de  lumber-yard  'hind  yo' 
house.  He  ain't.  You  might  search  ever'  stack  o' 
planks  en  ever'  dry-kiln  dar,  but  you  wouldn't  fin' 
'im.  He's  a  cousin  er  my  wife's,  en  me'n  dat  boy 
was  good,  true  friends,  en  so  he  come  here  des  now, 
when  you  heard  my  wife  call  me,  an'  th'owed  hisse'f 
on  my  mercy.  He's  out  at  my  stable  now,  up  in  de 
hay-loft,  waitin'  fer  me  ter  fetch  'im  suppin  ter  eat, 
as  soon  as  you  all  go  off.  My  wife  say  he's  de  most 
pitiful  thing  dat  God  ever  made,  en,  gen 'men,  I'm 
sorry  fer  'im.  Law  or  no  law,  I'm  sorry  fer  'im. 
It's  all  well  enough  fer  you  ter  set  here  in  yo'  good 
clothes  wid  good  meals  er  victuals  inside  o'  you,  en 
know  you  got  er  good  safe  baid  ter  go  ter — it's  all  well 
enough  fer  you  ter  vote  on  what  is  ter  be  done,  but 
ef  you  do  vote  fer  it  en  clap  'im  'hind  de  bars  en  he's 
hung — hung  by  de  neck  till  he's  as  stiff  es  a  bone, 
you'll  be  helpin'  ter  do  it.  Law  is  one  thing  when 
it's  law,  it's  another  thing  when  it  ain't  fit  ter  spit  on. 
You  all  talk  jestice,  jestice,  en  you  think  it  would  be 
er  powerful  fine  thing  ter  prove  ter  de  worl'  how\ 
honest  you  all  is  by  handin'  dat  po'  yaller  dog  over 
to  de  law.  Put  yo'selves  in  Pete's  shoes  an'  you 
wouldn't  be  so  easy  ter  vote  yo'selves  'hind  de 

149 


Mam'    Linda 

bars.  You'd  say  de  bird  in  de  han'  is  wuth  three  in 
de  bush,  en  you'd  stay  away  fum  de  white  man's 
court-house.  De  white  men  say  deirselves  dat  dar 
ain't  no  jestice,  en  dey's  right.  Carson  Dwight  is 
er  good  lawyer,  en  he'd  fight  till  he  drapped  in  his 
tracks,  but  de  State  solicitor  would  rake  up  enough 
agin  Pete  Warren  to  keep  de  jury's  blood  b'ilin'. 
Whar'd  dey  git  a  jury  but  fum  de  ranks  o'  de  very 
men  dat's  chasin'  Pete  lak  er  rabbit  now  ?  Whar'd 
dey  git  a  jury  dat  ud  believe  in  his  innocence  when 
dey  kin  prove  dat  he  done  threatened  de  daid  man  ? 
No  whar  in  dis  State.  No  innocent  nigger's  ever  been 
hung,  hein  ?  No  innocent  nigger's  in  de  chain  gang, 
hein  ?  Huh,  dey  as  thick  dar  es  fleas." 

When  Neb  had  ceased  speaking  not  a  voice  broke 
the  stillness  of  the  room  for  several  minutes,  then 
the  minister  said,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath :  "  Well, 
there  is  really  no  harm  in  looking  at  all  sides  of  the 
question.  The  very  view  you  have  taken,  Brother 
Wynn,  may  be  the  one  that  has  really  kept  colored 
people  from  being  more  active  in  the  legal  punish- 
ment of  their  race.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
would  only  be  fair,  since  you  say  Pete  Warren  is 
near,  for  him  to  be  told  of  the  situation  and  left  to 
decide  for  himself." 

"I'm  willin'  ter  do  dat,  God  knows,"  said  Neb, 
"en  ef  y'all  say  so,  I'll  fetch  'im  here  en  you  kin 
splain  it  ter  'im." 

"I'm  sure  that  will  be  best,"  said  Hardcastle. 
"  Hurry  up.  To  save  time,  you  might  bring  his  food 
here — that  is,  if  your  wife  has  not  taken  it  to  him." 

"No,  she  was  afeard  ter  go  out  dar.  I'll  mek  'er 
fetch  it  up  here  while  I  go  after  him.  It  may  tek 

150 


Mam'    Linda 

time,  fer  he  may  be  afeard  to  come  in.  But  ef  I 
tell  'im  de  grub's  here,  I  bound  you  hell  come 
a-hustlin'." 

They  heard  Neb's  voice  below  giving  instructions 
to  his  wife,  and  then  the  outer  door  in  the  rear  was 
opened  and  closed.  Presently  a  step  was  heard  on 
the  stair,  and  they  held  their  breaths  expectantly,  but 
it  was  only  Neb's  wife  with  a  tray  of  food.  Grop- 
ingly she  placed  it  on  a  little  table,  which  she  softly 
dragged  from  a  corner  into  the  centre  of  the  room,  and 
without  a  word  retired.  A  door  below  creaked  on  its 
hinges;  steps  shambling  and  unsteady  resounded 
hollowly  from  the  floor  beneath,  and  Neb's  urgent, 
pacific  voice  rose  to  the  tense  ears  of  the  listeners. 

"Come  on;  don't  be  a  baby,  Pete!"  they  heard 
Neb  say.  "  Dey  all  yo'  friends  en  want  ter  he'p  you 
out'n  yo'  trouble  ef  dey  kin." 

"Whar  dat  meat?  whar  it?  oh,  God!  whar  it?" 
It  was  the  voice  of  the  pursued  boy,  and  it  had  a 
queer,  uncanny  sound  that  all  but  struck  terror  to 
the  hearts  of  the  listeners. 

"She  lef'  it  up  dar  whar  dey  all  is,"  Neb  said; 
"come  on!  Ill  give  it  to  you!" 

That  seemed  to  settle  the  matter,  for  the  clamber- 
ing steps  drew  nearer ;  and  then  two  figures  slightly 
denser  than  the  darkness  came  into  the  room. 

"Wait;  let  me  git  you  er  chair,"  Neb  said. 

"Whar  it?  whar  it?  my  God!  whar  dat  meat?" 
Pete  cried,  in  a  harsh,  rasping  voice. 

"  Whar'd  she  put  it  ?"  Neb  asked.  "  Hanged  ef  I 
know." 

"On  the  table,"  said  Hardcastle. 

Neb  reached  out  for  the  tray  and  had  barely 


Mam'    Linda 

touched  it,  when  Pete  sprang  at  him  with  a  sound 
like  the  snarl  of  an  angry  dog.  The  tray  fell  with  a 
crash  to  the  floor  and  the  food  with  it. 

"There!"  Neb  exclaimed;  "you  did  it." 

Then  the  spectators  witnessed  a  pitiful,  even  re- 
pulsive scene,  for  the  boy  was  on  the  floor,  a  big  bone 
of  ham  in  his  clutch.  For  a  moment  nothing  was 
heard  except  the  snuffling,  gulping,  crunching  sound 
that  issued  from  Pete's  nose,  mouth,  and  jaws.  Then 
a  noise  was  heard  below.  It  was  a  sharp  rapping  on 
the  outer  door. 

"Sh!"  Neb  hissed,  warningly;  but  there  was  no 
cessation  of  the  ravenous  eating  of  the  starving 
negro.  Neb  cautiously  looked  out  of  the  window, 
allowing  only  his  head  to  protrude  over  the  window- 
sill.  "Who  dar?"  he  called  out. 

"Me,  Neb;  Jim  Lincum,"  answered  the  negro  be- 
low. "You  told  me  ef  I  heard  any  news  over  my 
way  ter  let  you  know." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Neb. 

"Folks  think  Pete  done  lef  de  woods,  Neb.  De 
mob  done  scattered  ter  hunt  all  round  de  coun- 
try. A  gang  of  'em  was  headed  dis  way  at  sun- 
down." 

"Oh,  dat  so?"  Neb  said;  "well  we  done  gone  ter 
baid,  Jim,  or  I'd  open  de  do'  en  let  you  have  er  place 
ter  sleep." 

"Don't  want  no  place  ter  sleep,  Neb,"  was  the 
answer,  in  a  half -humorous  tone.  "  Don't  want  ter 
sleep  nowhar  'cep'  on  my  laigs  sech  times  as  dese. 
Er  crowd  er  white  men  tried  ter  nab  me  while  I  was 
in  my  cotton-patch  at  work  dis  mawnin'  but  I  made 
myse'f  scarce.  Dey  hot  en  heavy  after  Sam  Dudlow ; 

152 


Mam'   Linda 

some  think  he  had  er  hand  in  de  killin'.  Dey  cayn't 
find  dat  nigger,  dough." 

"Well,  good-night,  Jim.  I  got  ter  git  some  rest," 
and  Neb  drew  his  head  back  and  lowered  the  win- 
dow-sash. 

"Jim's  all  right,"  he  said,  "but  I  couldn't  tek  'im 
in  here.  Dem  men  may  'a'  been  followin'  'im  on  de 
sly." 

He  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  room  and  stood 
over  the  crouching  figure  still  noisily  eating  on  the 
floor. 

"Pete,  Brother  Hardcastle  got  suppin  ter  'pose 
ter  you,  en  we  'ain't  got  any  too  much  time.  We 
goin'  ter  tell  you  'bout  it  an  leave  it  ter  you.  One 
thing  certain,  you  ain't  safe  hidin'  out  like  you  is, 
en  nobody  ain't  safe  dat  he'ps  hide  you,  so  I  say 
suppin  got  ter  be  done  in  yo'  case." 

"I  want  y'all  ter  sen'  fer  Marse  Carson,"  Pete 
mumbled,  between  his  gulps.  "He  kin  fix  me  ef 
anybody  kin." 

"That's  what  we  were  about  to  propose, Pete," 
said  the  preacher.  "You  see— 

"  Sh!"  It  was  Neb's  warning  hiss  again.  All  was 
silence  in  the  room ;  even  Pete  paused  to  listen.  It 
was  the  low  drone  of  human  voices,  and  many  in 
number,  immediately  below.  A  light  from  a  sud- 
denly exposed  lantern  flashed  on  the  walls.  Neb 
approached  the  window,  but  afraid  even  cautiously 
to  raise  the  sash,  he  stood  breathless.  Then  through 
his  closed  teeth  came  the  words:  "We  are  caught; 
gen'men,  we  in  fer  it  certain  en  sho!  Dey  done 
tracked  us  down!" 

There  was  a  loud  rapping  on  the  door  below,  a 


Mam'   Linda 

stifled  scream  from  Neb's  wife  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  and  then  a  sharp,  commanding  voice  sounded 
outside. 

"Open  up,  Neb  Wynn!"  it  said.  "We  are  onto 
your  game.  Some  devilment  is  in  the  wind  and  we 
are  going  to  know  what  it  is." 

Neb  suddenly  and  boldly  threw  up  the  sash  and 
looked  out.  "All  right,  gen'men,  don't  bre'k  my 
new  lock.  I'll  be  down  dar  in  er  minute."  Then 
quickly  turning  to  Pete,  he  bent  and  drew  him  up. 
"  Mak'  er  bre'k  fer  dat  winder  back  dar,  slide  down 
de  shed-roof,  en  run  fer  yo'  life.  Run!" 

There  was  a  great  clatter  of  chairs  and  feet  in  the 
group  of  men,  a  crashing  of  a  thin  window-sash  in 
the  rear,  a  heavy,  thumping  sound  on  a  roof  outside, 
and  a  loud  shout  from  lusty  throats  below. 

"There  he  goes!  Catch  'im!  Head  'im  off! 
Shoot  'im!" 

Then  darkness,  chaos,  and  terror  reigned. 


XIX 

[HILE  these  things  were  being  enacted, 
;  Sanders,  who  had  taken  supper  at 
i  Warren's,  and  Helen  sat  on  the  front 
[veranda  in  the  moonlight.  Scarcely 
[any  other  topic  than  Mam'  Linda's 
trouble  had  been  broached  between  them,  though 
the  ardent  visitor  had  made  many  futile  efforts  to 
draw  the  girl's  thought  into  more  cheerful  channels. 
It  was  shortly  after  ten  o'clock,  and  Sanders  was 
about  to  take  his  leave,  when  old  Lewis  emerged 
from  the  shadows  of  the  house  and  was  sham- 
bling along  the  walk  towards  the  gate  leading  into 
the  Dwight  grounds,  when  Helen  called  out  to 
him: 

"Where  are  you  going,  Uncle  Lewis?". 
He  doffed  his  old  slouch  hat  and  stood  bare  and 
bald,  his  smooth  pate  gleaming  in  the  moonlight. 

"I  started  over  ter  see  Marse  Carson,  missy,"  he 
said,  in  a  low,  husky  voice.  "  I  knows  good  en  well 
dat  he  can't  do  a  thing,  but  Linda's  been  beggin'  me 
ever  since  she  seed  him  en  Mr.  Garner  drive  up  at  de 
back  gate.  She  thinks  maybe  dey  1'arnt  suppin 
'bout  Pete.  I  knows  dey  hain't,  honey,  'ca'se  dey 
ud  'a'  been  over  'fo'  dis.  Dar  he  is  on  de  veranda 
now — oh,  Marse  Carson!  Kin  I  see  you  er  minute, 
suh?" 


Mam'   Linda 

"  Yes,  I'll  be  right  down,  Lewis,"  Carson  answered, 
leaning  over  the  railing. 

As  he  came  out  of  the  house  and  approached 
across  the  grass,  Sanders  and  Helen  went  to  meet 
him.  He  bowed  to  Helen  and  nodded  coldly  to 
Sanders,  to  whom  he  had  barely  been  introduced, 
and  then  with  a  furrowed  brow  he  stood  and 
listened  as  the  old  man  humbly  made  his  wants 
known. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  I  haven't  heard  a  thing,  Uncle 
Lewis,"  he  said.  "I'd  have  been  right  over  to  see 
Mam'  Linda  if  I  had.  So  far  as  I  can  see,  everything 
is  just  the  same." 

"Oh,  young  marster,  I  don't  know  what  I'm 
ergoin'  ter  do,"  the  old  negro  groaned.  "I  don't 
see  how  Linda's  gwine  ter  pass  thoo  another 
night.  She's  burnin'  at  de  stake,  Marse  Carson, 
but  thoo  it  all  she  blesses  you,  suh,  fer  tryin'  so 
hard.  My  Gawd,  dar  she  come  now;  she  couldn't 
wait." 

He  hastened  across  the  grass  to  where  the  old 
woman  stood,  and  caught  hold  of  her  arm. 

"Whar  Marse  Carson?  Whar  young  marster?" 
Linda  cried,  and  then,  catching  sight  of  the  trio,  she 
tottered  unaided  towards  them. 

"Oh,  young  marster,  I  can't  stan'  it;  I  des  can't!" 
she  groaned,  as  she  caught  Dwight's  hand  and  clung 
to  it.  "I  am  a  mother  ef  I  am  black,  an'  dat  my 
onliest  child.  My  onliest  child,  young  marster,  en 
de  po'  boy  is  'way  over  in  dem  mountains  starvin' 
ter  death  wid  dem  men  en  dogs  on  his  track.  Oh, 
young  marster,  ol'  Mammy  Lindy  is  cert'nly  crush- 
ed. Ef  I  could  see  Pete  in  his  coffin  I  could  put  up 

156 


Mam'    Linda 

wid  it,  but  dis  here — dis  here"  — she  struck  her  great 
breast  with  her  hand — "dis  awful  pain!  I  can't 
stan'  it — I  des  can't!" 

Carson  lowered  his  head.  There  was  a  look  of 
profound  and  tortured  sympathy  on  his  strong  face. 
Garner  came  out  of  the  house  smoking  a  cigar  and 
strolled  across  the  grass  towards  them,  but  observing 
the  situation  he  paused  at  a  flowering  rose-bush  and 
stood  looking  down  the  moonlit  street  towards  the 
court-house  and  grounds  dimly  outlined  in  the 
distance.  Garner  had  never  been  considered  very 
emotional ;  no  one  had  ever  detected  any  indications 
of  surprise  or  sorrow  in  his  face.  He  simply  stood 
there  to-night  avoiding  contact  with  the  inevitable. 
As  a  criminal  lawyer  he  had  been  obliged  to  inure 
himself  to  exhibitions  of  mental  suffering  as  a  phy- 
sician inures  himself  to  the  presence  of  physical  pain, 
and  yet  had  Garner  been  questioned  on  the  matter, 
he  would  have  admitted  that  he  admired  Carson 
Dwight  for  the  abundant  possession  of  the  very 
qualities  he  lacked.  He  positively  envied  his  friend 
to-night.  There  was  something  almost  transcen- 
dental in  the  heart-wrung  homage  the  old  woman 
was  paying  Carson.  There  was  something  else  in  the 
fact  that  the  wonderful  tribute  to  courage  and  man- 
liness was  being  paid  there  without  reservation  or 
stint  before  the  (and  Garner  chuckled)  very  eyes  of 
the  woman  who  had  rejected  Carson's  love,  and  in 
the  very  presence  of  the  masculine  incongruity  (as 
Garner  viewed  him)  by  her  side.  All  the  display  of 
emotion,  per  se,  had  no  claims  on  Garner's  interest, 
but  the  sheer,  magnificent  play  of  it,  and  its  palpable 
clutch  on  things  of  the  past  and  possible  events  of 


Mam'   Linda 

the  future,  held  him  as  would  the  unfolding  evidence 
in  an  important  law  case. 

"But  oh,  young  marster,"  old  Linda  was  saying; 
' '  thoo  it  all  you  been  my  stay  en  comfort ;  not  even 
God's  been  as  good  ter  me  as  you  have;  you  tried 
ter  he'p  po'  ol'  Lindy,  but  de  Lawd  on  high  done 
deserted  her.  Dar  ain't  no  just,  reasonable  God  dat 
will  treat  er  po'  old  black  'oman  es  I'm  treated, 
honey.  In  slavery  en  out  I've  done  de  best — de 
very  best  I  could  fer  white  en  black,  en  now  as  I 
stan'  here,  after  er  long  life,  wid  my  feet  in  de  grave, 
I  don't  deserve  ter  be  punished  wid  dis  slow  fire. 
Go  ter  de  white  'omen  er  dis  here  big  Newnited 
States  en  ax'  'em  how  dey  would  feel  in  my  fix.  Ef 
de  mothers  in  dis  worl'  could  see  me  ter-night  en  read 
down  in  my  heart,  er  river  of  tears  would  flow  fer 
me.  Dat  so,  en'  yet  de  God  I've  prayed  ter-night  en 
mornin',  in  slavery  en  out,  has  turned  His  back  on 
me.  I've  prayed,  young  marster,  till  my  throat  is 
sore,  till  now  I  hain't  got  no  strength  nor  faith  lef '  in 
me,  en — well,  here  I  stand.  You  all  see  me." 

Without  a  word,  his  face  wrung  with  pain,  Carson 
clasped  her  hand,  and  bowing  to  Helen  and  her  com- 
panion he  moved  away  and  joined  Garner. 

"It  was  high  time  you  were  getting  out  of  that," 
Garner  said,  as  he  pulled  at  his  cigar  and  drew  his 
friend  back  towards  the  house.  "You  can  do  noth- 
ing, and  letting  Linda  run  on  that  way  only  works 
her  up  to  greater  excitement.  But  say,  old  man, 
what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

Carson  was  white,  and  the  arm  Garner  had  taken 
was  trembling. 

"I  don't  know,  Garner,  but  I  simply  can't  stand 
158 


Mam'    Linda 

anything  like  that,"  Dwight  said,  his  eyes  on  the 
group  they  had  left.  "It  actually  makes  me  sick. 
I — I  can't  stand  it.  Good-night,  Garner;  if  you 
won't  sleep  here  with  me,  I'll  turn  in.  I — I — " 

"Hush!  what's  that?"  Garner  interrupted,  his 
ear  bent  towards  the  centre  of  the  town. 

It  was  a  loud  and  increasing  outcry  from  the 
direction  of  Neb  Wynn's  house.  Several  reports 
of  revolvers  were  heard,  and  screams  and  shouts: 
' '  Head  'im  off !  Shoot  'im !  There  he  goes ! ' ' 

"Great  God!"  Garner  cried,  excitedly;  "do  you 
suppose  it  is — 

He  did  not  finish,  for  Carson  had  raised  his  hand 
to  check  him  and  stood  staring  through  the  moon- 
light in  the  direction  from  which  the  sounds  were 
coming.  There  were  now  audible  the  rapid  and 
heavy  foot-falls  of  many  runners.  On  they  came, 
the  sound  increasing  as  they  drew  nearer.  They 
were  only  a  few  blocks  distant  now.  Carson  cast 
a  hurried  glance  towards  the  Warren  house.  There, 
leaning  on  the  fence,  supported  by  Helen  and  Lewis, 
stood  Linda,  silent,  motionless,  open  -  mouthed. 
Sanders  stood  alone,  not  far  away.  On  came  the 
rushing  throng.  They  were  turning  the  nearest 
corner.  Somebody,  or  something,  was  in  the  lead. 
Was  it  a  man,  an  animal,  a  mad  dog,  a — 

On  it  came  forming  the  point  of  a  human  triangle. 
It  was  a  man,  but  a  man  doubled  to  the  earth  by 
fatigue  and  weakness,  a  man  who  ran  as  if  on  the 
point  of  sprawling  at  every  desperate  leap  forward. 
His  hard  breathing  now  fell  on  Carson's  ears. 

"It's  Pete!"  he  said,  simply. 

Gamer  laid  a  firm  hand  on  his  friend's  arm- 


Mam'    Linda 

"Now's  the  time  for  you  to  have  common-sense," 
he  said.  "Remember,  you  have  lost  all  you  care 
for  by  this  thing — don't  throw  your  very  life  into 
the  damned  mess.  By  God,  you  ska1  n't!  I'll — " 

"Oh,  Marse  Carson,  it's  Pete!"  It  was  Linda's 
voice,  and  it  rang  out  high,  shrill,  and  pleading  above 
the  roar  and  din.  "Save  'im!  Save  'im!" 

Dwight  wrenched  his  arm  from  the  tense  clutch  of 
Garner  and  dashed  through  the  gate,  and  was  out  in 
the  street  just  as  the  negro  reached  him  and  stretched 
out  his  arms  in  breathless  appeal  and  fell  sprawling 
at  his  feet.  The  fugitive  remained  there  on  his 
knees,  his  hands  clutching  the  young  man's  legs, 
while  the  mob  gathered  round. 

"He's  the  one!"  a  hoarse  voice  exclaimed.  "Kill 
'im!  Burn  the  black  fiend!" 

Standing  pinioned  to  the  ground  by  Pete's  terri- 
fied clutch,  Carson  raised  his  hands  above  his  head. 
"Stop!  Stop!  Stop!"  he  kept  crying,  as  the  crowd 
swayed  him  back  and  forth  in  their  effort  to  lay  hold 
of  the  fugitive  who  was  clinging  to  his  master  with 
the  desperate  clutch  of  a  drowning  man. 

"Stop!  Listen!"  Carson  kept  shouting,  till  those 
nearest  him  became  calmer,  and  forming  a  deter- 
mined ring,  pressed  the  outer  ones  back. 

"Well,  listen!"  these  nearest  cried.  "See  what 
he's  got  to  say.  It's  Carson  Dwight.  Listen!  He 
won't  take  up  for  him ;  he's  a  white  man.  He  won't 
defend  a  black  devil  that — " 

"I  believe  this  boy  is  innocent!"  Carson's  voice 
rang  out,  "  and  I  plead  with  you  as  men  and  fellow- 
citizens  to  give  me  a  chance  to  prove  it  to  your  fullest 
satisfaction.  I'll  stake  my  life  on  what  I  say.  Some 

169 


Mam'   Linda 

of  you  know  me,  and  will  believe  me  when  I  say  I'll 
put  up  every  cent  I  have,  everything  I  hold  dear 
on  earth,  if  you  will  only  give  me  the  chance." 

A  fierce  cry  of  opposition  rose  in  the  outskirts  of 
the  throng,  and  it  passed  from  lip  to  lip  till  the  storm 
was  at  its  height  again.  Then  Garner  did  what  sur- 
prised Carson  as  much  as  anything  he  had  ever  seen 
from  that  man  of  mystery. 

"Stop!  Listen!"  Garner  thundered,  in  tones  of 
such  command  that  they  seemed  to  sweep  all 
other  sounds  out  of  the  tumult.  "Let's  hear  what 
he's  got  to  say.  It  can  do  no  harm!  Listen, 
boys!" 

The  trick  worked.  Not  three  men  in  the  excited 
mob  associated  the  voice  or  personality  with  the 
friend  and  partner  of  the  man  demanding  their  at- 
tention. The  tumult  subsided;  it  fell  away  till  only 
the  low,  whimpering  groans  of  the  frightened  fugitive 
were  heard.  There  was  a  granite  mounting-block  on 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  and  feeling  it  behind  him : 
Carson  stood  upon  it,  his  hands  on  the  woolly  pate 
of  the  negro  still  crouching  at  his  feet.  As  he  did 
so,  his  swift  glance  took  in  many  things  about  him : 
he  saw  Linda  at  the  fence,  her  head  bowed  upon  her 
arms  as  if  to  shut  out  from  her  sight  the  awful  scene ; 
near  her  stood  Lewis,  Helen,  and  Sanders,  their 
expectant  gaze  upon  him;  at  the  window  of  his 
mother's  room  he  saw  the  invalid  clearly  outlined 
against  the  lamplight  behind  her.  Never  had  Car- 
son Dwight  put  so  much  of  his  young,  sympathetic 
soul  into  words.  His  eloquence  streamed  from  him 
like  a  swollen  torrent  of  logic.  On  the  still  night  air 
his  voice  rose  clear,  firm,  confident.  It  was  no  call 

161 


Mam'    Linda 

to  them  to  be  merciful  to  the  boy's  mother  bowed 
there  like  a  thing  cut  from  stone,  for  passion  like 
theirs  would  have  been  inflamed  by  such  advice, 
considering  that  the  fugitive  was  charged  with 
having  slain  a  woman.  But  it  was  a  calm  call  to 
patriotism.  Carson  Dwight  plead  with  them  to  let 
their  temperate  action  that  night  say  to  all  the  world 
that  the  day  of  unbridled  lawlessness  in  the  fair 
Southland  was  at  an  end.  Law  and  order  on  the 
part  of  itself  was  the  South's  only  solution  of  the 
problem  laid  like  another  unjust  burden  on  a  sorely 
tried  and  suffering  people. 

"  Good,  good !  That's  the  stuff!"  It  was  the  raised 
voice  of  the  adroit  Garner,  under  his  broad-brimmed 
hat  in  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  "Listen,  neighbors; 
let  him  go  on!" 

There  was  a  fluttering  suggestion  of  acquiescence 
in  the  stillness  that  followed  Garner's  words.  But 
other  obstacles  were  to  arise.  A  clatter  of  galloping 
horses  was  heard  round  the  corner  on  the  nearest 
side  street,  and  three  men,  evidently  mountaineers, 
rode  madly  up.  They  reined  in  their  panting,  snort- 
ing mounts. 

"What's  the  matter?"  one  of  them  asked,  with  an 
oath.  "What  are  you  waiting  for?  That's  the 
damned  black  devil." 

"They  are  waiting,  like  reasonable  human  beings, 
to  give  this  man  a  chance  to  establish  his  innocence," 
Carson  cried,  firmly. 

"They  are,  damn  you,  are  they?"  the  same  voice 
retorted.  There  was  a  pause;  the  horseman  raised 
his  arm ;  a  revolver  gleamed  in  the  moonlight ;  there 
was  a  flash  and  a  report.  The  crowd  saw  Carson 

162 


"'MY  GOD,  HE'S  SHOT!'  GARNER  CALLED  OUT" 


Mam'    Linda 

Dwight  suddenly  lean  to  one  side  and  raise  his 
hands  to  the  side  of  his  head." 

"My  God,  he's  shot!"  Garner  called  out.  "Who 
fired  that  gun?" 

For  an  instant  horrified  silence  reigned;  Carson 
still  stood  pressing  his  hands  to  his  temple. 

No  one  spoke ;  the  three  restive  horses  were  rearing 
and  prancing  about  in  excitement.  Garner  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  elbowing  them  right  and 
left,  till  he  stood  near  the  fugitive  and  his  defender. 

"  A  good  white  man  has  been  shot,"  he  cried  out — 
"shot  by  a  man  on  one  of  those  horses.  Be  calm. 
This  is  a  serious  business." 

But  Carson,  with  his  left  hand  pressed  to  his 
temple,  now  stood  erect. 

"Yes,  some  coward  back  there  shot  me,"  he  said, 
boldly,  "but  I  don't  think  I  am  seriously  wounded. 
He  may  fire  on  me  again,  as  a  dirty  coward  will  do 
on  a  defenceless  man,  but  as  I  stand  here  daring  him 
to  try  it  again  I  plead  with  you,  my  friends,  to  let 
me  put  this  boy  into  jail.  Many  of  you  know  me, 
and  know  I'll  keep  my  word  when  I  promise  to  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  give  him  a  fair  and  just  trial 
for  the  crime  of  which  he  is  accused." 

"  Bully  for  you,  Dwight!  My  God,  he's  got  grit!" 
a  voice  cried.  "Let  him  have  his  way,  boys.  The 
sheriff  is  back  there.  Heigh,  Jeff  Braider,  come  to 
the  front!  You  are  wanted!" 

"  Is  the  sheriff  back  there?"  Carson  asked,  calmly, 
in  the  strange  silence  that  had  suddenly  fallen. 

"  Yes,  here  I  am."  Braider  was  threading  his  way 
towards  him  through  the  crowd.  "  I  was  trying  to 
spot  the  man  that  fired  that  shot,  but  he's  gone." 

163 


Mam*    Linda 

"You  bet  he's  gone!"  cried  one  of  the  two  re- 
maining horsemen,  and,  accompanied  by  the  other, 
he  turned  and,  they  galloped  away.  This  seemed  a 
final  signal  to  the  crowd  to  acquiesce  in  the  plan 
proposed,  and  they  stood  voiceless  and  still,  their  rage 
strangely  spent,  while  Braider  took  the  limp  and 
cowering  prisoner  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  down 
from  the  block.  Pete,  only  half  comprehending, 
was  whimpering  piteously  and  clinging  to  Dwight. 

"It's  all  right,  Pete,"  Carson  said.  "Come  on, 
we'll  lock  you  up  in  the  jail  where  you'll  be  safe." 

Between  Carson  and  the  sheriff,  followed  by 
Garner,  Pete  was  the  centre  of  the  jostling  throng  as 
they  moved  off  towards  the  jail. 

"  What  dey  gwine  ter  do,  honey  ?"  old  Linda  asked, 
finding  her  voice  for  the  first  time,  as  she  leaned 
towards  her  young  mistress. 

"Put  him  in  jail  where  he'll  be  safe,"  Helen  said. 
"It's  all  over  now,  mammy." 

"Thank  God,  thank  God!"  Linda  cried,  fervently. 
"I  knowed  Marse  Carson  wouldn't  let  'em  kill  my 
boy — I  knowed  it — I  knowed  it!" 

"  But  didn't  somebody  say  Marse  Carson  was  shot, 
honey?"  old  Lewis  asked.  "Seem  ter  me  like  I 
done  heard — " 

Pale  and  motionless,  Helen  stood  staring  after  the 
departing  crowd,  now  almost  out  of  view.  Carson 
Dwight's  thrilling  words  still  rang  in  her  ears.  He 
had  torn  her  very  heart  from  her  breast  and  held  it 
in  his  hands  while  speaking.  He  had  stood  there 
like  a  God  among  mere  men,  pleading  as  she  would 
have  pleaded  for  that  simple  human  life,  and  they 
had  listened;  they  had  been  swept  from  their  mad 

164 


Mam'    Linda 

purpose  by  the  fearless  sincerity  and  conviction  of 
his  young  soul.  They  had  shot  at  him  while  he 
stood  a  target  for  their  uncurbed  passion,  and  even 
then  he  had  dared  to  taunt  them  with  cowardice 
as  he  continued  his  appeal. 

"Daughter,  daughter!"  her  father  on  the  upper 
floor  of  the  veranda  was  calling  down  to  her. 

"What  is  it,  father?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  know  if  Carson  was  hurt?"  the  Major 
asked,  anxiously.  "You  know  he  said  he  wasn't, 
but  it  would  be  like  him  to  pretend  so,  even  if  he 
were  wounded.  It  may  be  only  the  excitement  that 
is  keeping  him  up,  and  the  poor  boy  may  be  seriously 
injured." 

"  Oh,  father,  do  you  think —  ?"  Helen's  heart  sank ; 
a  sensation  like  nausea  came  over  her,  and  she 
reeled  and  almost  fell.  Sanders,  a  queer,  white  look 
on  his  face,  caught  hold  of  her  arm  and  supported 
her  to  a  seat  on  the  veranda.  She  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  face  of  her  escort  as  she  sank  into  a  chair. 
"  Do  you  think — did  he  look  like  he  was  wounded  ?" 

"I  could  not  make  out,"  Sanders  answered,  so- 
licitously, and  yet  his  lip  was  drawrn  tight  and  he 
stood  quite  erect.  "  I — I  thought  he  was  at  first, 
but  later  when  he  continued  to  speak  I  fancied  I  was 
mistaken."' 

"He  put  his  hands  to  his  temple,"  Helen  said, 
"and  almost  fell.  I  saw  him  steady  himself,  and 
then  he  really  seemed  stunned  for  a  moment." 

Sanders  was  silent.  "  I  remember  her  aunt  said," 
he  reflected,  in  grim  misery,  his  brows  drawn  to- 
gether, "  that  she  once  had  a  sweetheart  up  here.  Is 
this  the  man?" 

165 


XX 


minutes  later,  while  they  still  sat 
)on   the   veranda   waiting   for   Carson's 
i  return,     they     saw     Dr.     Stone,     the 
jD wights'  family  physician,  alight  from 
jhis  horse  at  the  hitching-post  near  by. 
"I  wonder  what  that  means?"  the  Major  asked. 
"He  must  have  been  sent  for  on  Carson's  account 
and  thinks  he  is  at  home.     Speak  to  him,  Lewis." 

Hearing  his  name  called,  Dr.  Stone  approached, 
his  medicine-case  in  hand. 

"Were  you  looking  for  Carson?"  Major  Warren 
asked. 

"Why,  no, "  answered  the  doctor,  in  surprise ;  "  they 
said  Mrs.  Dwight  was  badly  shocked.  Was  Carson 
really  hurt?" 

"We  were  trying  to  find  out,"  said  the  Major. 
"  He  went  on  to  the  jail  with  the  sheriff,  determined 
to  see  Pete  protected." 

There  was  a  sound  of  an  opening  door  and  old 
Dwight  came  out  to  the  fence,  hatless,  coatless,  and 
pale.  "Come  right  in,  doctor,"  he  said,  grimly. 
"There's  no  time  to  lose." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  Stone  asked. 
"She's  dying,  if  I'm  any  judge,"  was  the  answer. 
"She  was  standing  at  the  window  and  heard  that 
pistol-shot  and  saw  Carson  was  hit.     She  fell  flat 

166 


Mam'    Linda 

on  the  floor.  We've  done  everything,  but  she's  still 
unconscious." 

The  two  men  went  hastily  into  the  room  where 
Mrs.  Dwight  lay,  and  they  were  barely  out  of  sight 
when  Helen  noticed  some  one  rapidly  approaching 
from  the  direction  of  the  jail.  It  was  Keith  Gordon, 
and  as  he  entered  the  gate  he  laid  his  hand  on  Linda's 
shoulder  and  said,  cheerily,  "  Don't  worry  now;  Pete 
is  safe  and  the  mob  is  dispersing." 

"But  Carson,"  Major  Warren  asked;  "was  he 
hurt?" 

"We  don't  exactly  know  yet."  Keith  was  now  at 
Helen's  side,  looking  into  her  wide-open,  anxious 
eyes.  "He  wouldn't  stop  a  second  to  be  examined. 
He  was  afraid  something  might  occur  to  alter  the 
temper  of  the  mob  and  wasn't  going  to  run  any 
risks.  The  crowd,  fortunately  for  Pete,  was  made 
up  mostly  of  towns-people.  One  man  from  the 
mountains,  a  blood  relative  of  the  Johnsons,  could 
have  kindled  the  blaze  again  with  a  word,  and  Carson 
knew  it.  He  was  more  worried  about  his  mother 
than  anything  else.  She  was  at  the  window  and  he 
saw  her  fall ;  he  urged  me  to  hurry  back  to  tell  her 
he  was  all  right.  I'll  go  in." 

But  he  was  detained  by  the  sound  of  voices  down 
the  street.  It  was  a  group  of  half  a  dozen  men,  and 
in  their  midst  was  Carson  Dwight,  violently  protest- 
ing against  being  supported. 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  all  right!"  Helen  heard  him  saying. 
"I'm  not  a  baby,  Garner;  let  me  alone!" 

"But  you  are  bleeding  like  a  stuck  pig,"  Garner 
said.  "  Your  handkerchief  is  literally  soaked.  And 
look  at  your  shirt!" 


Mam'    Linda 

"It's  only  skin-deep,"  Carson  cried.  "I  was 
stunned  for  a  moment  when  it  hit  me,  that's  all." 

Helen,  followed  by  her  father  and  Sanders,  ad- 
vanced hurriedly  to  meet  the  approaching  group. 
They  gave  way  as  she  drew  near,  and  she  and  Dwight 
faced  each  other. 

"The  doctor  is  in  the  house,  Carson,"  she  said, 
tenderly;  "go  in  and  let  him  examine  your  wound." 

"It's  only  a  scratch,  Helen,  I  give  you  my  word," 
he  laughed,  lightly.  "  I  never  saw  such  a  squeamish 
set  of  men  in  my  life.  Even  stolid  old  Bill  Garner 
has  had  seven  duck  fits  at  the  sight  of  my  red  hand- 
kerchief. How's  my  mother?" 

Helen's  eyes  fell.  "Your  father  says  he  is  afraid 
it  is  quite  serious,"  she  said.  "The  doctor  is  with 
her;  she  was  unconscious." 

They  saw  Carson  wince ;  his  face  became  suddenly 
rigid.  He  sighed.  "It  may  not  be  so  well  after  all. 
Pete  is  safe  for  awhile,  but  if  she — if  my  mother  were 
to —  ' '  He  went  no  further,  simply  staring  blankly  into 
Helen's  face.  Suddenly  she  put  her  hand  up  to  his 
blood-stained  temple  and  gently  drew  aside  the 
matted  hair.  Their  eyes  met  and  clung  together. 

"You  must  let  Dr.  Stone  dress  this  at  once,"  she 
said,  more  gently,  Sanders  thought,  than  he  had  ever 
heard  a  woman  speak  in  all  his  life.  He  turned 
aside ;  there  was  something  in  the  contact  of  the  two 
that  at  once  maddened  him  and  drew  him  down  to 
despair.  He  had  dared  to  hope  that  she  would 
consent  to  become  his  wife,  and  yet  the  man  to  whom 
she  was  so  gently  ministering  had  once  been  her 
lover.  Yes,  that  was  the  man.  He  was  sure  of  it 
now.  Dwight's  attitude,  tone  of  voice,  and  glance 

168 


Mam'    Linda 

of  the  eye  were  evidence  enough.  Besides,  Sanders 
asked  himself,  where  was  the  living  man  who  could 
know  Helen  Warren  and  not  be  her  slave  forever 
afterwards  ? 

"Well,  I'll  go  right  in,"  Carson  said,  gloomily. 
He  and  Keith  and  Garner  were  passing  through  the 
gate  when  Linda  called  to  him  as  she  came  hastily 
forward,  but  Keith  and  Garner  were  talking  and 
Carson  did  not  hear  the  old  woman's  voice.  Helen 
met  her  and  paused.  "Let  him  alone  to-night, 
mammy,"  she  said,  almost  bitterly,  it  seemed  to 
Sanders,  who  was  peering  into  new  depths  of  her 
character.  "  Your  boy  is  safe,  but  Carson  is  wound- 
ed— wounded,  I  tell  you,  and  his  mother  may  be 
dying.  Let  him  alone  for  to-night,  anyway." 

"All  right,  honey,"  the  old  woman  said;  "but  I'm 
gwine  ter  stay  here  till  de  doctor  comes  out  en  ax 
'im  how  dey  bofe  is.  My  heart  is  full  ter-night, 
honey.  Seem  'most  like  God  done  listen  ter  my 
prayers  after  all." 

Sanders  lingered  with  the  pale,  deeply  distraught 
young  lady  on  the  veranda  till  Keith  came  out  of 
the  house,  passed  through  the  gate,  and  strode  across 
the  grass  towards  them. 

"They  are  both  all  right,  thank  God!"  he  an- 
nounced. "The  doctor  says  Mrs.  D wight  has  had  a 
frightful  shock  but  will  pull  through.  Carson  was 
right;  his  wound  was  only  a  scratch  caused  by  the 
grazing  bullet.  But  God  knows  it  was  a  close  call, 
and  I  think  there  is  but  one  man  in  the  State  low 
enough  to  have  fired  the  shot." 

When  Keith  and  Sanders  had  left  her,  Helen  went 
with  dragging,  listless  feet  up  the  stairs  to  her  room. 

i6g 


Mam'    Linda 

Lighting  her  lamp,  she  stood  looking  at  her  image  in 
the  mirror  on  her  bureau.  How  strangely  drawn 
and  grave  her  features  appeared!  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  looked  older  and  more  serious  than  she  had 
ever  looked  in  her  life. 

Dropping  her  glance  to  her  hands,  she  noted  some- 
thing that  sent  a  thrill  through  her  from  head  to  foot. 
It  was  a  purple  smudge  left  on  her  fingers  by  their 
contact  with  Carson  Dwight's  wound.  Stepping 
across  to  her  wash-stand,  she  poured  some  water  into 
the  basin,  and  was  on  the  point  of  removing  the 
stain  when  she  paused  and  impulsively  raised  it 
towards  her  lips.  She  stopped  again,  and  stood  with 
her  hand  poised  in  mid-air.  Then  a  thought  flashed 
into  her  brain.  She  was  recalling  the  contents  of 
the  fatal  letter  of  Carson's  to  her  poor  brother;  the 
hot  blood  surged  over  her.  She  shuddered,  dipped 
her  hands,  and  began  to  lave  them  in  the  cooling 
water.  Carson  was  noble;  he  was  brave;  he  had  a 
great  and  beautiful  soul,  and  yet  he  had  written  that 
letter  to  her  dead  brother.  Yes,  she  had  openly  en- 
couraged Sanders,  and  she  must  be  honorable.  At 
any  rate,  he  was  a  good,  clean  man  and  his  happiness 
was  at  stake.  Yes,  she  supposed  she  would  finally 
marry  him.  She  would  many  him. 


XXI 

(ARSON  was  slightly  weakened  by  the 
Uoss  of  blood  and  the  unusual  tax  on 
I  his  strength,  and  yet,  wearing  a  strip 
i  of  sticking-plaster  as  the  only  sign  of 
jhis  wound,  he  was  at  the  office  be- 
times the  next  morning,  anxious  to  make  an  early 
start  into  the  arrangements  for  a  hurried  preliminary 
trial  of  his  client.  Garner,  as,  was  that  worthy's 
habit  when  kept  up  late  at  night,  was  still  asleep  in 
the  den  when  Helen  called. 

Carson  was  at  his  desk,  bending  over  a  law-book, 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  when,  looking  up,  he  saw  her 
standing  in  the  doorway  and  rose  instantly,  a  flush 
of  gratification  on  his  face. 

"I've  come  to  see  you  about  poor  Pete,"  she 
began,  her  pale  face  taking  on  color  as  if  from  the 
heat  of  his  own.  "  I  know  it's  early,  but  I  couldn't 
wait.  Mam'  Linda  was  in  my  room  this  morning  at 
the  break  of  day,  sitting  by  my  bed  rocking  back 
and  forth  and  moaning." 

"She's  uneasy,  of  course,"  Carson  said.  "That's 
only  natural  of  a  mother  placed  as  she  is." 

"Oh  yes,"  Helen  answered,  with  a  sigh.  "She 
was  thoroughly  happy  last  night  over  his  rescue,  but 
now  you  see  she's  got  something  else  to  worry  about. 
She  now  wonders  if  he  will  be  allowed  a  fair  trial." 

171 


Mam'   Linda 

"The  boy  must  have  that,"  Carson  said,  and  then 
his  face  clouded  over  and  he  held  himself  more  erect 
as  he  glanced  past  her  out  at  the  door.  "Is  Mr. 
Sanders — did  he  come  with  you  ?  You  see,  I  met  him 
on  the  way  to  your  house  as  I  came  down." 

"  Yes,  he's  there  talking  over  the  trouble  with  my 
father,"  Helen  made  rather  awkward  answer.  "He 
came  in  to  breakfast,  but — but  I  wasn't  at  the  table. 
I  was  with  Mam'  Linda."  And  thereupon  Helen 
blushed  more  deeply  over  the  reflection  that  these 
last  words  might  sound  like  intentional  and  even 
presumptuous  balm  to  the  sensitiveness  of  a  rejected 
suitor. 

"  I  was  afraid  he  might  be  waiting  on  the  outside," 
Carson  said,  awkwardly.  "I  want  to  show  hospi- 
tality to  a  stranger  in  town,  you  know,  but  some- 
how I  can't  exactly  do  my  full  duty  in  his  case." 

"  You  are  not  expected  to,"  and  Helen  had  tripped 
again,  as  her  fresh  color  proved.  "  I  mean,  Carson — " 
But  she  could  go  no  further. 

"Well,  I  am  unequal  to  it,  anyway,"  Carson  re- 
plied, with  tightening  lips  and  a  steady,  honest  stare. 
"  I  don't  dislike  him  personally.  I  hold  no  actual 
grudge  against  him.  From  all  I've  heard  of  him  he 
is  worthy  of  any  woman's  love  and  deepest  respect. 
I'm  simply  off  the  committee  of  entertainment  dur- 
ing his  stay." 

"I — I — didn't  come  down  to  talk  about  Mr. 
Sanders,"  Helen  found  herself  saying,  as  the  shortest 
road  from  the. trying  subject.  "It  seems  to  me  you 
ought  to  hate  me.  I  have,  I  know,  through  my  con- 
cern over  Pete,  caused  you  endless  trouble  and  loss  of 
political  influence.  Last  night  you  did  what  no 

172 


Mam'    Linda 

other  man  would  or  could  have  done.  Oh,  it  was  so 
brave,  so  noble,  so  glorious!  I  laid  awake  nearly  all 
night  thinking  about  it.  Your  wonderful  speech 
rang  over  and  over  in  my  ears.  I  was  too  excited  to 
cry  while  it  was  actually  going  on,  but  I  shed  tears 
of  joy  when  I  thought  it  all  over  afterwards." 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  anything!"  D wight  said,  forcing 
a  light  tone,  though  his  flush  had  died  out.  "  I  knew 
you  and  Linda  wanted  the  boy  saved,  and  it  wasn't 
anything.  I  ran  no  risk.  It  was  only  fun — a  game 
of  football  with  a  human  pigskin  snatched  here  and 
there  by  a  frenzied  mob  of  players.  When  it  fell 
of  its  own  accord  at  my  feet,  and  I  had  laid  hands 
on  it,  I  would  have  put  it  over  the  line  or  died  trying, 
especially  when  you  and  Sanders — who  has  beaten 
me  in  a  grander  game — stood  looking  on.  Oh,  I'm 
only  natural !  I  wanted  to  win  because — first ,  because 
it  was  your  wish,  and — because  that  man  was  there." 

Helen's  glance  fell  to  the  ragged  carpet  which, 
clogged  with  the  dried  mud  of  a  recent  rain,  stretched 
from  her  feet  to  the  door.  Then  she  looked  help- 
lessly round  the  room  at  the  dusty,  open  book- 
shelves, Garner's  disreputable  desk  strewn  with 
pamphlets,  printed  forms  of  notes  and  mortgages, 
cigar-stubs,  and  old  letters.  Her  eyes  rested  longer 
on  the  dingy,  small-paned  windows  to  which  the 
cobwebs  clung. 

"  You  always  bring  up  his  name,"  she  said,  almost 
resentfully.  "Is  it  really  quite  fair  to  him?" 

"No,  it  isn't,"  he  admitted,  quickly.  "And  from 
this  moment  that  sort  of  banter  is  at  an  end.  Now, 
what  can  I  do  for  you?  You  came  to  speak  about 
Pete." 


Mam'    Linda 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  It  was  almost  as 
if,  after  all  she  had  said,  that  if  the  subject  was  to  be 
dropped,  hers,  not  his,  should  be  the  final  word. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  Mam'  Linda  and  I  have 
just  left  the  jail.  She  was  so  wrought  up  and  weak 
that  I  made  Uncle  Lewis  take  her  home  in  a  buggy. 
He  says  she  didn't  close  her  eyes  all  last  night  and 
this  morning  refused  to  touch  her  breakfast.  Then 
the  sight  of  Pete  in  his  awful  condition  completely 
unnerved  her.  Did  you  get  a  good  look  at  him  last 
night,  Carson — I  mean  in  the  light?" 

"No."  Dwight  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 
"But  he  looked  bad  enough  as  it  was." 

"The  sight  made  me  ill,"  Helen  said.  "The 
jailer  let  us  go  into  the  narrow  passage  and  we  saw 
him  through  the  bars  of  the  cell.  I  would  never 
have  known  him  in  the  world.  His  clothing  was  all 
in  shreds  and  his  face  and  arms  were  gashed  and 
torn,  his  feet  bare  and  bleeding.  Poor  mammy 
simply  stood  peering  through  at  him  and  crying, 
'My  boy,  my  baby,  my  baby!'  Carson,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve he  is  innocent." 

" So  do  I,"  Dwight  made  prompt  answer.  "That 
is,  I  am  reasonably  sure  of  it.  I  shall  know  positively 
when  I  talk  to  him  to-day." 

"Then  you  will  secure  his  liberty,  won't  you?" 
Helen  asked,  eagerly.  "I  promised  mammy  I'd 
talk  to  you  and  bring  her  a  report  of  what  you  said." 

"I  am  going  to  do  everything  in  my  power," 
Dwight  said;  "but  I  don't  want  to  raise  false  hopes 
only  to  disappoint  "you  and  Linda  all  the  more  later." 

"Oh,  Carson,  tell  me  what  you  mean.  You  don't 
seem  sure  of  the  outcome." 

J74 


Mam'    Linda 

"You  must  try  to  look  at  the  thing  bravely, 
Helen,"  Dwight  said,  firmly.  "There  is  more  in  it 
than  an  inexperienced  girl  like  you  could  imagine. 
I  think  we  can  arrange  for  a  trial  to-morrow,  but  it 
seems  often  that  it  is  while  such  trials  are  in 
progress  that  the  people  become  most  wrought  up ; 
and  then,  you  know,  to-day  and  to-night  must  pass, 
and — "  He  broke  off,  avoiding  her  earnest  stare  of 
inquiry. 

"Go  on,  Carson,  you  can  trust  me,  if  I  am  only  a 
girl." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  Dwight  complied,  "it  is 
the  next  twenty-four  hours  that  I  dread  most.  That 
mob  last  night,  it  seems,  was  made  up  for  the  most 
part  of  men  here  in  town,  workers  in  the  factories 
and  iron-foundries — many  of  whom  know  me  per- 
sonally and  have  faith  in  my  promises.  If  it  were 
left  with  them  I'd  have  little  to  fear,  but  it  is  the 
immediate  neighbors  of  the  dead  man  and  woman, 
the  members  of  the  gang  of  White  Caps  who  whipped 
Pete  and  feel  themselves  personally  affronted  by 
what  they  believe  to  be  his  crime — they  are  the  men, 
Helen,  from  whom  I  fear  trouble." 

Helen  was  pale  and  her  hands  trembled,  though 
she  strove  bravely  to  be  calm. 

"You  still  fear  that  they  may  rise  and  come — 
and — take — h  im — out — of — j  ail  ?  Oh ! "  She  clasped 
her  hands  tightly  and  stood  facing  him,  a  look  of 
terror  growing  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  "And  can't 
something  be  done  ?  Mr.  Sanders  spoke  this  morn- 
ing of  telegraphing  the  Governor  to  send  troops  to 
guard  the  jail." 

"Ah,  that's  it!"  said  Carson,  grimly.  "But  who 

175 


Mam'   Linda 

is  to  take  that  responsibility  on  himself.  I  can't, 
Helen.  It  might  be  the  gravest,  most  horrible  mis- 
take a  man  ever  made,  one  that  would  haunt  him  to 
his  very  grave.  The  Governor,  not  understanding 
the  pulse  of  the  people  here,  might  take  the  word  of 
some  one  on  the  spot.  Garner  and  I  know  him 
pretty  well.  We've  been  of  political  service  to  him 
personally,  and  he  would  do  all  he  could  if  we  tele- 
graphed him,  but — we  couldn't  do  it.  By  the  stroke 
of  our  pen  we  might  make  orphans  of  the  children  of 
scores  of  honest  white  men,  and  widows  of  their  wives, 
for  the  bayonets  and  shot  of  a  regiment  of  soldiers 
would  not  deter  such  men  from  what  they  regard  as 
sacred  duty  to  their  families  and  homes.  If  the 
Governor's  troops  did  military  duty,  they  would 
have  to  hew  down  human  beings  like  wheat  before  a 
scythe.  The  very  sight  of  their  uniforms  would  be 
like  a  red  rag  to  a  mad  bull.  It  would  be  a  calamity 
such  as  has  never  taken  place  in  the  State.  I  can't 
have  a  hand  in  that,  Helen,  and  not  another  thinking 
man  in  the  South  would.  I  love  the  men  of  the 
mountains  too  well.  They  are  turning  against  me 
politically  because  we  differ  somewhat,  but  I  sim- 
ply can't  see  them  shot  like  rabbits  in  a  net.  Pete 
is,  after  all,  only  one  —  they  are  many,  and  they 
are  conscientiously  acting  according  to  their  lights. 
The  machinery  of  modern  law  moves  too  slowly  for 
them.  They  have  seen  crime  triumphant  too  often 
to  trust  to  any  verdict  other  than  that  reached  from 
their  own  reasoning." 

"  I  see;  I  see!"  Helen  cried,  her  face  blanched.  "  I 
don't  blame  you,  Carson,  but  poor  mammy ;  what  can 
I  say  to  her?" 

176 


Mam'    Linda 

"Do  your  best  to  pacify  and  encourage  her," 
Dwight  answered,  "and  we'll  hope  for  the  best." 

He  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched  her  as  she 
walked  off  down  the  little  street.  "  Poor,  dear  girl !" 
he  mused.  "  I  had  to  tell  her  the  truth.  She's  too 
brave  and  strong  to  be  treated  like  a  child." 

He  turned  back  to  his  desk  and  sat  down.  There 
was  a  deep  frown  on  his  face.  "  I  came  within  an 
inch  of  losing  my  grip  on  myself,"  his  thoughts  ran 
on.  "Another  moment  and  I'd  have  let  her  know 
how  I  am  suffering.  She  must  never  know  that — 
never!" 


XXII 

'ALF  an  hour  later  Garner  came  in. 
He  walked  about  the  room,  a  half 
smile  on  his  face,  sniffing  the  air  as 
if  with  unctuous  delight,  casting  now 
and  then  an  amused  glance  at  his  in- 
attentive partner. 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  up  to 
now?"  Carson  asked,  slightly  irritated  over  having 
his  thoughts  disturbed. 

"She's  been  here,"  Garner  answered.  "She  told 
me  so  just  now,  and  I  want  to  inhale  the  heavenly 
perfume  she  left  in  this  disreputable  hole.  Good 
Lord,  you  don't  mean  that  you  let  her  see  those 
rotten  slippers  of  mine!  If  you'd  been  half  a  friend 
you'd  have  kicked  them  out  of  sight,  but  you  didn't 
care ;  you've  got  on  a  clean  collar  and  necktie,  and 
that  plaster  on  your  alabaster  brow  would  admit 
you  to  the  highest  realm  of  the  elect — provided  the 
door-keeper  was  a  woman  and  knew  how  you  got 
your  ticket.  Huh!  I  really  don't  know  what  will 
become  of  me  if  I  associate  with  you  much  longer. 
Your  conduct  last  night  upset  me.  I  turned  in  to 
bed  about  two  o'clock.  Bob  Smith  was  doing  night- 
work  at  the  hotel,  and  he  came  in  and  had  to  be  told 
the  whole  thing;  and  he'd  no  sooner  got  to  bed  than 
Keith  came  in,  and  Bob  had  to  hear  his  version.  I 

178 


Mam'    Linda 

had  a  corking  dime  novel,  but  it  was  too  tame 
after  the  racket  you  went  through.  The  Red 
Avenger  I  was  trying  to  get  interested  in  couldn't 
hold  a  candle,  even  in  his  bareback  ride  strapped  to 
a  wild  mustang  in  a  mad  dash  across  a  burning 
prairie,  to  your  horse-block  rescue  act.  What  you 
did  was  new,  and  I  was  there.  The  burning  prairie 
business  has  been  overdone  and  the  love  interest  in 
the  Red  Avenger  was  weak,  while  yours — well!" 

Garner  sat  down  in  his  creaking  revolving-chair 
and  thrust  his  thumbs  into  the  arm-holes  of  his  vest. 

"Mine?"  Carson  said,  coldly.  "I  don't  exactly 
see  your  point." 

"Well,  the  love  business  was  there  all  the  same," 
Garner  laughed,  significantly;  "for,  thrilling  as  it  all 
was,  I  had  an  eye  to  that.  I  couldn't  keep  from 
wondering  how  I'd  have  felt  if  I'd  been  in  your  place 
and  had  your  chances." 

"My  chances!"  Dwight  frowned.  It  was  plain 
that  he  did  not  like  Garner's  bold  encroachments  on 
his  natural  reserve. 

"Yes,  your  chances,  dang  you!"  Garner  retorted, 
with  a  laugh.  "Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  as  a 
psychological  proposition,  the  biggest,  most  earnest, 
most  credulous-looking  ass  on  earth  is  the  man  who 
comes  to  a  strange  town  to  do  his  courting  and  has 
nothing  to  do  but  that  one  thing,  at  stated  hours 
through  the  day  or  evening,  while  everybody  around 
him  is  going  about  attending  to  business.  I've 
watched  that  fellow  hanging  around  the  office  of  the 
hotel,  kicking  his  heels  together  to  kill  time  between 
visits,  and  in  spite  of  all  I've  heard  about  his  sta- 
bility and  moral  worth  I  can't  respect  him.  Hang 

179 


Mam'    Linda 

it,  if  I  were  in  his  place  and  wanted  to  spend  a 
week  here,  I'd  peddle  cigars  on  the  street — I'd  cer- 
tainly have  something  to  occupy  my  spare  time. 
But  I'll  be  flamdoodled  if  you  didn't  give  him  some- 
thing to  think  about  last  night.  Of  all  things,  it 
strikes  me,  that  could  make  a  man  like  that  sick — 
sick  as  a  dog  at  the  very  stomach  of  his  hopes — would 
be  to  see  a  former  sweetheart  of  his  fair  charmer 
standing  under  shot  and  shell  in  front  of  her  ances- 
tral mansion  protecting  her  servants  from  a  howling 
mob  like  that,  and  later  to  see  the  defender,  with  the 
step  of  a  David  with  a  sling,  come  traipsing  back 
victorious  in  her  cause,  all  gummed  up  with  blood 
and  fighting  still  like  hell  to  keep  his  friends  from 
choking  him  to  death  in  sheer  admiration.  She  and 
Sanders  may  be  engaged,  but  I'll  be  dadblamed  if  I 
wouldn't  be  worried  if  I  were  in  his  place." 

"I  wish  you  would  let  up,  Garner,"  D wight  said, 
almost  angrily.  "  I  know  you  mean  well,  but  you 
don't  understand  the  situation,  and  I  have  told  you 
before  that  I  don't  like  to  talk  about  it." 

"  I  did  want  to  tell  you  how  it  was  rubbed  in  on 
him  this  morning,"  Garner  said,  only  half  apologet- 
ically, "and  if  you  don't  care,  I'll  finish." 

Carson  said  nothing.  Spots  of  red  were  on  his 
cheeks,  and  with  a  teasing  smile  Garner  went  on: 
"I  had  stopped  to  speak  to  her  on  the  corner  just 
now,  when  the  Major  and  his  Highness  from  Augusta 
joined  us.  The  old  man  was  simply  bursting  with 
enthusiasm  over  what  you  accomplished  last  night. 
According  to  the  Major,  you  were  the  highest  type 
of  Southerner  since  George  Washington,  and  the 
obtuse  old  chap  kept  turning  to  Sanders  for  his  con- 

180 


Mam'    Linda 

firmation  of  each  and  every  statement.  Sanders  was 
doing  it  with  slow  nods  and  inarticulate  grunts, 
about  as  readily  as  a  seasick  passenger  specifies 
items  for  his  dinner,  while  Helen  stood  there  blush- 
ing like  a  red  rose.  Well,"  Garner  concluded,  as  he 
kicked  off  one  of  his  untied  shoes  to  put  on  a  slipper, 
"it  may  be  cold  comfort  to  you,  viewed  under  the 
search-light  of  all  the  gossip  in  the  air,  but  your 
blond  rival  is  so  jealous  that  the  green  juice  of  it  is 
oozing  from  the  pores  of  his  skin." 

"It  isn't  fair  to  him  to  look  at  it  as  you  are," 
Dwight  said.  "Under  the  same  circumstances  he 
could  have  taken  my  place." 

"Under  the  same  circumstances,  yes,"  Garner 
grinned.  "  But  it  is  circumstances  that  make  things 
what  they  are  in  this  world,  and  I  tell  you  that 
fellow  needs  circumstances  worse  than  any  man  I 
ever  saw.  He  is  worried.  I  stopped  and  watched  him 
as  he  walked  on  with  her,  and  I  declare  it  looked 
to  me  like  he  kicked  himself  under  his  long  coat  at 
every  step.  Say,  look!  Isn't  that  Pole  Baker 
across  the  street  ?  The  fellow  behind  the  gray  horse. 
Yes,  that's  who  it  is.  I'll  call  him.  He  may  have 
news  from  the  mountains." 

Answering  the  summons,  Baker  led  his  horse 
across  the  street  to  where  the  two  friends  stood 
waiting  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement. 

"  Have  they  heard  of  the  arrest  over  there,  Pole?" 
Garner  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  farmer  drawled  out.  "I  was  at 
George  Wilson's  store  this  morning,  where  a  big' gang 
was  waiting  for  food  supplies  from  their  homes. 
Dan  Willis  fetched  the  report — by-the-way,  fellows, 

181 


Mam'    Linda 

just  between  us  three,  111  bet  he  was  the  skunk  that 
fired  that  shot.  I'm  pretty  sure  of  it,  from  what 
I've  picked  up  from  some  of  his  pals." 

"But  what  are  they  going  to  do?"  Carson  asked, 
anxiously. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  come  in  town  to  tell  you," 
answered  the  mountaineer.  "They  are  taking  en- 
tirely a  new  tack.  A  report  has  leaked  out  that 
Sam  Dudlow  was  seen  prowling  about  Johnson's  just 
'fore  dark  the  night  of  the  murder,  and  they  are  dead 
on  his  track.  They  are  concentrating  their  forces 
to  catch  him,  and,  since  Pete  Warren  is  safe  in  jail, 
they  say  they  are  going  to  let  'im  stay  thar  awhile 
anyway." 

"  Good!"  Garner  cried,  rubbing  his  hands  together. 
"We've  got  two  chances,  now,  my  boy — to  prove 
Pete  innocent  at  court  or  by  their  catching  the  right 
man.  In  my  opinion,  Dudlow  is  the  coon  that  did 
the  .job,  and  I  believe  he  did  it  alone.  Pete  is  too 
chicken-hearted  and  he's  been  too  well  brought  up. 
Now  let's  get  to  work.  You  go  talk  to  the  prisoner, 
Carson,  and  put  him  through  that  honeyfugling 
third  degree  of  yours.  He'll  confess  if  he  did  it,  and 
if  he  did,  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul!  I 
won't  help  defend  him." 

"That's  whar  I  stand,"  Pole  Baker  said.  "It's 
enough  trouble  savin'  innocent  niggers  these  days 
without  bothering  over  the  guilty.  Shyster  law- 
yers tryin'  to  protect  the  bad  ones  for  a  little  fee  is 
at  the  bottom  of  all  this  lawlessness  anyway." 


XXIII 

S  the  prisoner's  counsel,  Carson  had  no 
difficulty  in  seeing  him.  At  the  outer 
door  of  the  red  brick  structure,  with  its 
slate  roof  and  dormer  windows,  Dwight 
Imet  Burt  Barrett,  the  jailer,  a  tall 
though  strong  young  man,  who  had  once  lived  in 
the  mountains  and  had  been  a  moonshiner,  and  was 
noted  for  his  grim  courage  in  any  emergency. 

"I  understand  the  trial  is  set  for  to-morrow,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  opened  the  .outer  door  which  led 
into  a  hallway  at  the  end  of  which  was  the  portion 
of  the  house  in  which  he  lived  with  his  wife  and 
children. 

"  Yes,"  Carson  replied ;  "  the  judge  has  telegraphed 
that  he  will  come  without  fail." 

The  jailer  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed. 
"  I  feel  a  sight  better  over  it  than  I  did  last  night. 
I  understand  that  the  mob  is  going  to  let  us  alone 
till  they  can  catch  Sam  Dudlow;  if  they  lay  hands 
on  that  scamp  they  certainly  will  barbecue  'im  alive. 
As  for  Pete,  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  about  him; 
he's  a  trifling  nigger  and  no  mistake.  He's  got  a 
good,  old-time  mammy  and  daddy,  and  none  of  Major 
Warren's  niggers  have  ever  been  in  the  chain-gang, 
but  this  boy  has  talked  a  lot  and  been  in  powerful 
bad  company.  If  you  can  keep  him  out  of  the 

13  l83 


Mam'    Linda 

clutch  of  the  mob  you  may  save  his  neck,  but  you've 
got  a  job  before  you." 

"  I  want  to  ask  what  you  think  about  putting  a 
guard  round  the  jail,"  Carson  said,  when  they  were 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the  cells  on  the 
floor  above. 

"As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I  hope  you  won't  have 
it  done,"  said  Barrett.  "To  save  your  neck,  you 
couldn't  summon  men  that  wouldn't  be  prejudiced 
agin  the  nigger,  an'  if  the  report  went  out  that  we 
had  put  a  force  on  at  the  jail  it  would  only  make  the 
mob  madder,  and  make  them  act  quicker.  A  hun- 
dred armed  citizens  wouldn't  stop  a  lynching  gang — 
not  a  shot  would  be  fired  by  white  men  at  white 
men,  so  what  would  be  the  use?" 

"That's  what  the  sheriff  thinks  exactly,  Burt," 
Carson  replied.  "  I  presume  the  only  thing  to  do  is 
to  treat  the  arrest  as  usual.  I'm  doing  all  I  can  to 
assure  the  people  that  there  is  to  be  a  fair  and 
speedy  trial." 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  were 
near  Pete's  cell,  when  the  jailer  turned  and  asked, 
in  an  undertone,  "Are  you  armed?" 

"Why,  no,"  Carson  said,  in  surprise. 

"Good  Lord!  I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  go  inside 
the  cell  then.  I've  known  niggers  to  kill  their  best 
friends  when  they  are  desperate." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  this  one,"  D wight  laughed. 
"  I  must  get  inside.  I  want  to  know  the  whole 
truth,  and  I  can't  talk  to  him  through  the  grating. 
Is  he  in  the  cell  on  the  right?" 

"No,  the  first  on  the  left;  it's  the  only  double- 
barred  one  in  the  jail." 

184 


Mam'    Linda 

In  one  corner  of  the  fairly  well  lighted  room  stood 
a  veritable  cage,  the  sides,  top  and  bottom  consisting 
of  heavy  steel  lattice-work.  As  the  jailer  was  un- 
locking the  massive  door,  Carson  peered  through  one 
of  the  squares  and  a  most  pitiful  sight  met  his  eye, 
for  at  the  sound  of  the  key  in  the  lock  Pete,  in  his 
tatters  and  gashed  and  swollen  face,  had  crouched 
down  on  his  dingy  blanket  and  remained  there 
quaking  in  terror. 

"Get  up!"  the  jailer  ordered,  in  a  not  unkindly 
tone;  "it's  Carson  Dwight  to  see  you." 

At  this  the  negro's  face  lighted  up,  his  eyes  blazed 
in  the  sudden  flare  of  relief,  and  he  rose  quickly. 

"Oh,  Marse  Carson,  I  was  afeared — " 

"  Lock  us  in, "  Dwight  said  to  the  jailer ;  "  when  I'm 
through  I'll  call  you." 

"All  right,  you  know  him  better  than  I  do," 
Barrett  said.  "Ill  wait  below." 

"  Pete,"  Carson  said,  gently,  when  they  were  alone, 
"your  mother  says  she  wants  me  to  defend  you 
under  the  charge  brought  against  you.  Do  you 
wish  it,  too?" 

"Yasser,  Marse  Carson;  but,  Marse  Carson,  I 
don't  know  no  mo'  about  dat  thing  dan  you  do. 
'Fo'  God,  Marse  Carson,  I'm  telling  you  de  trufe. 
Lawsy,  Marse  Carson,  you  kin  git  me  out  o'  here  ef 
you'll  des  tell  'em  ter  let  me  go.  Dey  all  know  you, 
Marse  Carson,  en  dey  know  none  er  yo'  kind  er  black  i 
folks  ain't  er  gwine  ter  do  er  nasty  thing  lak  dat./ 
Look  how  dey  did  las'  night!  Shucks!  dey  wouldn't 
er  lef '  enough  o'  my  haar  fer  er  hummin' -bird's  nest, 
ef  I  hadn't  got  ter  you  in  de  nick  er  time.  Dat 
pack  er  howlin'  rapscallions  was  tryin'  ter  tear  me 


Mam'    Linda 

ter  mince-meat  when  you  fired  off  dat  big  speech  en 
made  'em  all  feel  lak  crawlin'  in  holes.  You  tell 
'em,  Marse  Carson — you  tell  de  jailer  ter  le'  me  out. 
Dat  man  know  you  ain't  no  fool ;  he  know  you  is  de 
biggest  lawyer  in  de  Souf .  Ain't  I  heard  old  marster 
say  you  gwine  up,  en  up,  en  up,  till  you  set  in  de 
jedge's  seat  in  de  cote?  Las'  night,  when  you  'gun 
on  'em,  en  let  out  dat  way,  I  knowed  I  was  safe,  but  I 
don't  see  what  yo'-all  waitin'  fer;  I  want  ter  go  home 
ter  mammy,  Marse  Carson.  Look  lak  she  been  sick, 
en  she  cried  en  tuck  on  here,  en  so  did  young  miss. 
Marse  Carson,  what's  de  matter  wid  me?  What  I 
done?  I  ain't  er  bad  nigger.  Unc'  Richmond,  on 
de  farm,  tol'  me  'twas  'ca'se  I  made  threats  ergin  dat 
white  man  'ca'se  he  whipped  me.  I  did  talk  er  lot, 
Marse  Carson,  but  I  never  meant  no  harm.  I  was 
des  er  HT  mad,  en — " 

"  Stop,  Pete!"  There  was  a  crude  wooden  stool  in 
the  cell  and  Carson  sat  down  on  it.  His  heart  was 
overflowing  with  pity  for  the  simple,  trusting  creat- 
ure before  him  as  he  went  on  gently  and  yet  firmly : 
"You  don't  realize  it,  Pete,  but  you  are  in  the  most 
dangerous  position  you  were  ever  in.  I  am  power- 
less to  release  you.  You'll  have  to  be  taken  to  court 
and  seriously  tried  by  law  for  the  crime  of  which 
you  are  charged.  Pete,  I'm  going  to  defend  you, 
but  I  can't  do  a  thing  for  you  unless  you  tell  me  the 
whole  truth.  If  you  did  this  thing  you  must  tell 
me — me,  do  you  understand.  We  are  alone.  No 
one  can  hear  you,  and  if  you  confess  it  to  me  it  will 
go  no  further.  Do  you  understand?" 

Dwight's  glance  was  fixed  on  the  floor.  To  this 
point  he  had  steeled  himself  against  a  too  impulsive 

186 


Mam'    Linda 

faith  in  the  negro's  words  that  he  might  logically 
satisfy  himself  beyond  any  doubt  as  to  the  innocence 
or  guilt  of  his  client.  There  was  silence.  He  dared 
not  look  into  the  gashed  face  before  him,  dreading  to 
read  what  might  be  written  there  by  the  quivering 
hand  of  self-condemnation.  The  sheer  length  of  the 
ensuing  pause  sent  cold  darts  of  fear  through  him. 
He  waited  another  moment,  then  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  staring  ones  fixed  upon  him.  To  his  astonish- 
ment they  were  full  of  tears ;  the  great,  heavy  lip  of 
the  negro  was  quivering  like  that  of  a  weeping  child. 

"Why,  Marse  Carson!"  he  sobbed;  "my  God,  I 
thought  you  knowed  I  didn't  do  it!  When  you 
tol'  'em  all  las'  night  dat  I  wasn't  de  right  one,  I 
thought  you  meant  it.  I  never  once  thought  you — 
you  was  gwine  ter  turn  ergin  me." 

Carson  restrained  himself  by  an  effort  as  he  went 
on,  still  calmly,  with  the  penetrating  insistency  of 
grim  justice  itself. 

"  Then  do  you  know  anything  about  it  ?"  he  asked ; 
— "anything  at  all?" 

"Nothing  I  could  swear  to,  Marse  Carson,"  Pete 
replied,  wiping  his  eyes  on  his  torn  and  sleeveless 
arm. 

"Do  you  suspect  anybody,  Pete?" 

"Yasser,  I  do,  Marse  Carson.  Somehow,  I  b'lieve 
dat  Sam  Dudlow  done  it.  I  b'lieve  it  'ca'se  folks  say 
he's  run  off;  en  what  he  run  off  fer  lessen  he's  de 
one?  Oh,  Marse  Carson,  I  'lowed  I  was  havin'  er 
hard  'nough  time  lak  it  is,  but  ef  you  gwine  jine 
de  rest  uv  um  en — 

"Stop;  think!"  Carson  went  on, almost  sternly,  so 
eager  was  he  to  get  vital  facts  bearing  on  the  situa- 

187 


Mam'    Linda 

tion.  "  I  want  to  know,  Pete,  why  you  think  Sam 
Dudlow  killed  the  Johnsons.  Have  you  any  other 
reason  except  that  he  has  left?" 

Pete  hesitated  a  moment,  then  he  answered :  "I 
think  he  de  one,  Marse  Carson,  'ca'se  one  day  while 
me'n  him  en  some  more  niggers  was  loadin'  cotton 
at  yo'  pa's  warehouse,  some  un  was  guyin'  me  'bout 
de  stripes  Johnson  en  Willis  lef  on  my  back,  en  I 
was — I  was  shoo  tin'  off  my  mouf.  I  didn't  mean 
er  thing,  Marse  Carson,  but  I  was  talkin'  too  much, 
en  Sam  come  ter  me,  he  did,  en  said:  '  Yo'  er  fool, 
nigger;  yo'  sort  never  gits  even  fer  er  thing  lak  dat. 
It's  de  kind  dat  lay  low  en  do  de  wuk  right.'  En, 
Marse  Carson,  w'en  I  hear  dem  folks  was  daid  I  des 
laid  it  ter  Sam,  in  my  mind." 

"Pete,"  Dwight  said,  as  he  rose  to  leave,  "I  firmly 
believe  you  are  innocent." 

"Thank  God,  Marse  Carson!  I  thought  you'd 
b'lieve  me.  Now,  w'en  you  gwine  let  me  out?" 

"I  can't  tell  that,  Pete,"  Dwight  answered,  as 
cheerfully  as  possible.  "You  need  a  suit  of  clothes. 
I'll  send  you  one  right  away." 

"One  er  yo's,  Marse  Carson?"  The  gashed  face 
actually  glowed  with  the  delight  of  a  child  over  a 
new  -toy. 

"  I  was  going  to  order  a  new  one,"  Carson  answered. 

"I'd  ruther  have  one  er  yo's  ef  you  got  one  you 
thoo  with,"  Pete  said,  eagerly.  "Dar  ain't  none  in 
dis  town  lak  dem  you  git  fum  New  York.  Is  you 
quit  wearin'  dat  brown  checked  one  you  got  last 
spring?" 

"Oh  yes,  you  can  have  that,  Pete,  if  you  wish, 
and  I'll  send  you  some  shoes  and  other  things." 

188 


Mam'   Linda 

"My  God!  will  yer,  boss?  Lawd,  won't  I  cut  er 
shine  at  chu'ch  next  Sunday!  Say,  Marse  Carson, 
you  ain't  gwine  ter  let  urn  keep  me  in  here  over 
Sunday,  is  you?" 

"I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  you,  Pete,"  the  young 
man  said,  and  when  the  jailer  had  opened  the  door 
he  descended  the  stairs  with  a  heavy,  despondent 
tread. 

"Poor,  poor  devil!"  he  said  to  himself.  "He's  not 
any  more  responsible  than  a  baby.  And  yet  our 
laws  hold  him,  in  his  benighted  ignorance,  more 
tightly,  more  mercilessly  than  they  do  the  highest 
in  the  land." 


XXIV 

ESPITE  the  news  Pole  Baker  had 
brought  to  town  regarding  the  dispo- 
sition of  the  mountaineers  to  let  jus- 
tice take  its  formal  trend  in  the  case 
of  the  negro  already  arrested,  as  the 
day  wore  on  towards  its  close  the  whole  town  took 
on  an  air  of  vague  excitement.  Men  who  now  lived 
at  Darley,  but  had  been  former  residents  of  the 
country,  and  were  supposed  to  know  the  temper 
and  character  of  the  aggrieved  people,  shook  their 
heads  and  smiled  grimly  when  the  subject  of  Pete's 
coming  trial  was  mentioned.  "Huh!"  said  one  of 
these  men,  who  kept  a  small  grocery  store  on  the 
main  street,  "that  nigger  11  never  see  the  door  of 
the  court-house." 

And  that  opinion  grew  and  seemed  to  saturate  the 
very  garment  of  approaching  night.  The  negroes 
at  work  in  various  ways  about  the  business  portion 
of  the  town  left  their  posts  early,  and  with  no  com- 
ment to  the  whites  or  even  to  their  own  kind,  they 
betook  themselves  to  their  homes  —  or  elsewhere. 
The  negroes  who  had  held  the  interrupted  meeting 
at  Neb  Wynn's  house  had  been  all  that  day  less  in 
evidence  than  any  of  the  others.  The  attempt  to 
stimulate  law  and  order,  to  meet  the  white  race  on 
common  ground,  had  been  crudely  and  yet  sincerely 

190 


Mam'   Linda 

made.  They  had  done  all  they  could  within  their 
restricted  limitations;  it  now  behooved  them  per- 
sonally to  avoid  the  probable  overflow  of  the  com- 
ing crisis.  Their  meeting  in  secret,  they  feared,  was 
not  understood.  The  present  prisoner,  in  fact,  had 
to  all  appearances,  at  least,  been  knowingly  har- 
bored by  them.  To  explain  would  be  easy  enough; 
convincing  an  infuriated,  race  -  mad  mob  of  their 
friendly,  helpful  intentions  would  be  impossible. 
Hence  it  was  that  long-headed,  now  silent- tongued, 
Neb  Wynn  locked  up  his  domicile,  and  with  his  wife 
and  children  stole  through  the  darkest  streets  and 
alleys  to  the  house  of  a  citizen  who  had  owned  his 
father. 

"Marse  George,"  he  said.  "I  want  you  ter  take 
me'n  my  folks  in  fer  ter-night." 

"All  right,  Neb,"  the  white  man  answered ;  "we've 
got  plenty  of  room.  Go  round  to  the  kitchen  and 
get  your  suppers.  I  didn't  know  it  was  as  bad  as 
that,  but  it  may  be  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side." 

Just  after  dark  Carson  went  home  to  supper.  As 
he  drew  near  the  front  gate  he  noticed  that  the 
Warren  house  was  lighted  both  in  the  upper  and 
lower  portions  and  that  a  group  of  persons  were 
standing  on  the  veranda.  He  noticed  the  towering 
form  of  old  Lewis  and  the  bowed,  bandanna-clad 
head  of  Linda,  and  with  them,  evidently  offering 
consolation,  stood  Helen,  the  Major,  Sanders,  and 
Keith  Gordon. 

Carson  was  entering  the  gate  when  Keith  through 
the  twilight  recognized  him  and  signalled  him  to 
wait.  And  leaving  the  others  Keith  came  over  to 
him. 

191 


Mam'    Linda 

"I  must  see  you,  Carson,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
had  never  sounded  so  grave.  "Can  we  go  in?  If 
Mam'  Linda  sees  you  she'll  be  after  you.  She's 
terribly  upset." 

"Come  into  the  library,"  Carson  said.  "I  see  it's 
lighted.  We'll  not  be  disturbed  there." 

Inside  the  big,  square  room,  with  its  simple  furnish- 
ings and  drab  tints,  Carson  sank,  weary  from  his 
nervous  strain  and  loss  of  sleep,  into  an  easy-chair 
and  motioned  his  friend  to  take  another,  but  Keith, 
nervously  twirling  his  hat  in  his  hands,  continued  to 
stand. 

"It's  awful,  old  man,  simply  awful!"  he  said. 
"I've  been  there  since  sundown  trying  to  pacify 
that  old  man  and  woman,  but  what  was  the  use?" 

"Then  she's  afraid — "  Carson  began. 

"Afraid?  Good  God!  how  could  she  help  it? 
The  negro  preacher  and  his  wife  came  to  her  and 
Lewis  and  frankly  tried  to  prepare  them  for  the 
worst.  Uncle  Lewis  is  speechless,  and  Linda  is  past 
the  tear-shedding  stage.  Hand  in  hand  the  old  pair 
simply  pace  the  floor  like  goaded  brutes  with  human 
hearts  and  souls  bound  up  in  them.  Then  Helen — 
the  poor,  dear  girl!  Isn't  this  a  beautiful  home- 
coming for  her?  I  feel  like  fighting,  and  yet  there's 
nothing  to  hit  but  empty,  heartless  air.  I  don't 
care  if  you  know  it,  Carson. "  Keith  sank  into  a  chair 
and  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  glistening  with  the 
condensed  dew  of  tense  emotion.  "I  don't  deny  it. 
Helen  is  the  only  girl  I  ever  cared  for.  She's  treated 
me  very  kindly  ever  since  she  discovered  my  feeling, 
and  given  me  to  understand  in  the  sweetest  way  the 
utter  hopelessness  of  my  case,  but  I  still  feel  the 

IQ2 


Mam'    Linda 

same.  I  thought  I  was  growing  out  of  it,  but  seeing 
her  sorrow  to-day  has  shown  me  what  she  is  to  me 
— and  what  she  always  will  be.  I'll  love  her  all 
my  life,  Carson.  She's  suffering  terribly  over  this. 
She  loves  her  old  mammy  as  much  as  if  they  were 
the  same  flesh  and  blood.  Oh,  it  was  pitiful,  simply 
pitiful !  Helen  was  trying  to  pacify  her  just  now,  and 
the  old  woman  suddenly  laid  her  hand  on  her  breast 
and  cried  out:  'Don't  talk  ter  me,  honey  child,  I 
nursed  bofe  you  en  Pete  on  dis  here  breast,  an*  dat 
boy's  me — my  own  self,  heart  en  soul,  en  ef  God  let's 
dem  men  hang  'im  ter-night,  I'll  curse  'Im  ter  my 
grave." 

"Poor  old  woman!"  Carson  sighed.  "If  it  has 
to  come  to  her,  it  would  be  better  to  have  it  over 
with.  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  stood 
back  last  night  and  let  them  have  their  way." 

"Oh  no,"  protested  Keith;  "that's  Linda's  sole 
comfort.  She  hardly  draws  a  breath  that  doesn't 
utter  your  name.  She  still  believes  that  her  only 
hope  rests  in  you.  She  says  you'll  yet  think  of 
something — that  you'll  yet  do  something  to  pre- 
vent the  thing.  She  cries  that  out  every  now  and 
then.  Oh,  Carson,  I  don't  amount  to  anything, 
but  before  God  I  can  truthfully  say  that  I'd  give  my 
life  to  have  Linda  talk  that  way  about  me — before 
Helen." 

Carson  groaned,  his  tense  hands  were  locked  like 
prongs  of  steel  in  front  of  him,  his  face  was  deathly 
pale.  "You  wouldn't  like  any  sort  of  talk  or  idle 
compliments  if  you  were  bound  hand  and  foot  as  I 
am,"  he  said.  "  It's  mockery.  It's  vinegar  rubbed 
into  my  wounds.  It's  hell!" 


Mam'    Linda 

He  tore  himself  from  his  chair  and  began  to  stride 
about  the  room  like  a  restless  tiger  in  a  cage.  His 
walk  took  him  into  the  hall  utterly  forgetful  of 
the  presence  of  his  friend.  There  a  colored  maid 
came  to  him  and  said,  "Your  mother  wants  you, 
sir." 

He  stared  at  the  girl  blankly  for  a  moment,  then 
he  seemed  to  pull  himself  together.  ' '  Has  my  moth- 
er heard — ?" 

"No,  sir,  your  father  told  us  not  to  excite  her." 

"All  right,  I'll  go  up,"  Carson  said.  "Tell  Mr. 
Gordon,  in  the  library,  to  wait  for  me." 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  had  come,"  the  invalid 
said,  as  he  bent  over  her  bed,  took  her  hand,  and 
kissed  her.  "I  presume  you  have  been  very  busy 
all  day  over  Pete's  case?" 

"Yes,  very  busy,  mother  dear." 

"And  is  it  all  right  now?  Your  father  tells  me 
the  trial  is  set  for  to-morrow.  Oh,  Carson,  I'm  very 
proud  of  you.  I  heard  your  speech  last  night,  and  it 
seemed  to  lift  me  to  the  very  throne  of  God.  Oh, 
you  are  right,  you  are  right!  It  is  our  duty  to  love 
and  sympathize  with  those  poor  creatures.  They 
are  still  children  in  the  cradles  of  their  past  slavery. 
They  can't  act  for  themselves.  Their  crimes  are 
due  chiefly  to  the  lack  of  the  guiding  hands  they  once 
had.  Oh,  my  son,  your  father  is  angry  with  you  for 
spoiling  your  political  chances  by  such  a  radical 
stand,  but  even  if  you  lose  the  race  by  it,  I  shall  be 
all  the  prouder  of  you,  for  you  have  shown  that  you 
won't  sell  yourself.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  the  court- 
house to-morrow,  but  the  doctor  won't  let  me.  He 
says  I  mustn't  have  another  shock  like  that  last 

194 


Mam'    Linda 

night,  when  I  heard  that  shot,  saw  you  reel,  and 
thought  you  were  killed.  Son,  are  you  listening?" 

"Why,  yes,  mother.  I — "  His  mind  was  really 
elsewhere.  He  had  dropped  her  hand,  and  was 
standing  with  furrowed  brow  and  tightly  drawn  lips 
in  the  shadow  thrown  by  the  lamp  on  a  table  near 
by  and  the  high  posts  of  the  old-fashioned  bedstead. 

"I  thought  you  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  some- 
thing else,"  said  the  invalid,  plaintively. 

"I  really  was  troubled  about  leaving  Keith  down- 
stairs by  himself,"  Carson  said.  "Perhaps  I'd  bet- 
ter run  down  now,  mother." 

"Oh  yes,  I  didn't  know  he  was  there.  Ask  him 
to  supper." 

"All  right,  mother,"  and  he  left  the  room  with  a 
slow  step,  finding  Gordon  on  the  veranda  below 
fitfully  puffing  at  a  cigar  as  he  walked  to  and  fro. 

"Helen  called  me  to  the  fence  just  now,"  Keith 
said.  "She's  all  broken  to  pieces.  She  is  relying 
solely  on  you  now.  She  sent  you  a  message." 

"Me?" 

"Yes,  with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks 
she  simply  said,  'Tell  Carson  that  I  am  praying 
that  he  will  think  of  some  way  to  avert  this  dis- 
aster." 

"She  said  that!"  Carson  turned  and  stared  through 
the  gathering  shadows  towards  the  jail.  There  was 
a  moment's  pause,  then  he  asked,  in  a  tone  that  was 
harsh,  crisp,  and  rasping: 

"Keith,  could  you  get  together  to-night  fifteen 
men  who  would  stick  to  me  through  personal  friend- 
ship and  help  me  arrive  at  some  decision  as  to — to 
what  is  best?" 


Mam'   Linda 

"Twenty,  Carson — twenty  who  would  risk  their 
lives  at  a  word  from  you." 

"They  might  have  to  sacrifice — " 

"That  wouldn't  make  a  bit  of  difference;  I  know 
the  ones  you  can  depend  on.  You've  got  genuine 
friends,  the  truest  and  bravest  a  man  ever  had." 

' '  Then  have  as  many  as  you  can  get  to  meet  me  at 
Blackburn's  store  at  nine  o'clock.  We  may  ac- 
complish nothing,  but  I  want  to  talk  to  them.  God 
knows  it  is  the  only  chance.  No,  I  can't  explain 
now.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Tell  Black- 
burn to  keep  the  doors  shut  and  let  them  assemble 
in  the  rear  as  secretly  and  quietly  as  possible." 

"All  right,  Carson.     I'll  have  the  men  there." 


XXV 

|HEN  Carson  reached  the  front  door  of 
Blackburn's  store  about  nine  o'clock 
that  evening  he  found  it  closed.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  under  the  crude 
wooden  shed  that  roofed  the  sidewalk 
and  looked  up  and  down  the  deserted  street.  It 
was  a  dark  night,  and  from  the  aspect  of  the  heavy, 
troubled  cloudc  high  winds  seemed  in  abeyance  be- 
yond the  hills  to  the  west.  He  was  wondering  how 
he  had  best  make  his  presence  known  to  his  friends 
within  the  store,  when  he  heard  a  soft  whistle,  and 
Keith  Gordon,  the  flaring  disk  of  a  cigar  lighting  his 
expectant  face,  stepped  out  of  a  dark  doorway. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said,  in  a  cautious 
undertone.  "They  are  getting  impatient.  You  see, 
they  thought  you'd  be  here  earlier." 

' '  I  couldn't  get  away  while  my  mother  was  awake," 
Carson  said.  "Dr.  Stone  was  there  and  warned  me 
not  to  leave  at  night.  She  can't  stand  any  more 
excitement.  So  I  had  to  stay  with  her.  I  read  to 
her  till  she  fell  asleep.  Who's  here?" 

"The  gang  and  fully  fifteen  other  trusty  fellows — 
you'll  see  them  on  the  inside,  every  man  of  them 
with  a  gun.  At  the  last  moment  I  heard  Pole 
Baker  was  down  at  the  wagon-yard,  and  I  nabbed 
him." 

197 


Mam'    Linda 

"Good;  I'm  glad  you  did.     Now  let's  go  in." 

"Not  yet,  old  man,"  Keith  objected.  "Black- 
burn gave  special  orders  not  to  open  the  door  if  any 
person  was  in  sight.  Let's  walk  to  the  corner  and 
look  around." 

They  went  to  the  old  bank  building  on  the  corner, 
and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  leading  up  to  the 
den.  No  one  was  in  sight.  Across  the  numerous 
tracks  of  the  switch-yard  hard  by  there  was  a  steam 
flouring  mill  which  ground  day  and  night,  and  the 
steady  puffing  of  the  engine  beat  monotonously  on 
their  ears.  In  a  red  flare  of  light  they  saw  the 
shadowy  form  of  the  engineer  stoking  the  fire. 

"Now  the  way  is  clear,"  said  Keith;  "we  can  go 
in,  but  I  want  to  prepare  you  for  a  disappointment, 
old  man." 

Carson  stared  through  the  darkness  as  arm  in  arm 
they  moved  back  to  the  store.  "You  mean — " 

"I'll  tell  you,  Carson.  The  meeting  of  these 
fellows  to-night  is  a  big  proof  of  the — the  wonderful 
esteem  in  which  they  hold  you.  No  other  man 
could  have  got  them  together  at  such  a  time ;  but,  all 
the  same,  they  are  not  going  to  allow  you  to — you 
see,  Carson,  they  have  had  time  to  talk  it  over  in 
there,  and  have  unanimously  agreed  that  to  make 
any  opposition  by  force  would  be  wTorse  than  folly. 
Pole  Baker  brought  some  reliable  news,  reliable  and 
terrible.  Why,  he  told  us  just  now — however,  wait. 
He  will  tell  you  about  it." 

Giving  a  rap  on  the  door  that  was  recognized 
within,  they  were  admitted  by  Blackburn,  who 
stood  back  in  the  shadow  and  quickly  closed  the 
shutter  and  locked  it  again.  In  the  uncertain 

198 


Mam'    Linda 

light  of  a  lamp  with  a  murky  chimney,  on  the  plat- 
form in  the  rear,  seated  on  boxes,  nail  kegs,  chairs, 
table,  and  desk,  Dwight  beheld  a  motley  gathering 
of  his  friends  and  supporters.  Kirk  Fitzpatrick,  the 
brawny,  black-handed  tinner,  who  had  a  jest  for 
every  moment,  was  there;  Wilson,  the  shoemaker; 
Tobe  Hassler,  the  German  baker;  Tom  Wayland,  the 
good-hearted  drug  clerk,  whose  hair  was  as  red  as 
blood;  Bob  Smith,  Wade  Tingle,  and,  nestled  close 
to  the  lamp,  and  looking  like  a  hunchback,  crouched 
Garner,  so  deep  in  a  newspaper  that  he  was  utterly 
deaf  and  blind  to  sounds  and  things  around  him. 
Besides  those  mentioned,  there  were  several  other 
ardent  friends  of  the  candidate. 

"Well,  here  you  are  at  last,"  Garner  cried,  throw- 
ing down  his  paper.  "  If  I  hadn't  had  something  to 
read  I'd  have  been  asleep.  I  don't  know  any  more 
than  a  rabbit  what  you  intend  to  propose,  but  what- 
ever it  is,  we  are  late  enough  about  it." 

Hurriedly  Carson  explained  the  cause  of  his  delay 
and  took  the  chair  which  the  tinner,  with  the  air  j 
of  a  proud  inferior,  was  pushing  towards  him.  As  j 
he  sat  down  and  the  lamplight  fell  athwart  his  care- 
worn face,  the  group  was  overwhelmed  with  sympa- 
thy and  a  strange,  far-reaching  respect  they  could 
hardly  understand.  To-night  they  were,  more  than 
usual,  under  the  spell  of  that  inner  force  which  had 
bound  them  one  and  all  to  him  and  which,  they 
felt,  nothing  but  dishonor  could  break.  And  yet 
there  they  sat  so  grimly  banded  together  against  him 
that  he  felt  it  in  their  very  attitudes. 

"The  truth  is" — Garner  broke  the  awkward  pause 
— "we  presume  you  got  us  together  to-night  to  offer 

14  199 


Mam'    Linda 

open  opposition  —  in  case,  of  course,  that  the  mob 
means  harm  to  your  client.  That  seems  the  only  thing 
a  body  of  men  can  do.  But,  my  dear  boy,  there  are 
two  sides  to  this  question.  For  reasons  of  your  own, 
chief  among  which  is  a  most  beautiful  principle  to 
see  the  humblest  stamp  of  man  get  justice  —  for 
these  reasons  you  call  on  your  friends  to  stand  to 
you,  and  they  will  stand,  I  reckon,  to  the  end,  but 
it's  for  you,  Carson,  to  act  reasonably  and  think  as 
readily  of  the  interests  of  all  of  us  as  for  those  of  the 
unfortunate  prisoner.  To  meet  that  mob  by  op- 
position to-night  would — well,  ask  Pole  Baker  for 
the  latest  news.  When  you  have  heard  what  he 
knows  to  be  true,  I  am  sure  you  will  see  the  utter 
futility  of  any  movement  whatsoever." 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  on  the  gaunt  mountaineer, 
who  was  sitting  on  an  inverted  nail  keg  whittling  to 
a  fine  point  a  bit  of  wood  which  now  and  then  he 
thrust  automatically  between  his  white  front  teeth. 

"Well,  Carson,"  he  began,  in  drawling  tones,  "I 
lowed  you-uns  wrould  want  to  know  just  how  the 
land  lays,  and  as  I  had  a  sort  of  underground  way 
of  gettin'  at  first-hand  facts,  I  raked  in  all  the  in- 
formation I  could  an'  come  on  to  town.  I'd  heard 
about  how  low  your  mother  was,  an'  easy  upset  by 
excitement,  an'  so  I  didn't  go  up  to  your  house.  I 
met  Keith,  an'  he  told  me  I  could  see  you  at  this 
meetin',  an'  so  I  waited.  Carson,  the  jig  is  certainly 
up  with  that  coon.  No  power  under  high  heaven 
could  save  his  neck.  The  report  that  was  circulated 
this  morning,  was  deliberately  sent  out  to  throw 
the  authorities  off  their  guard.  Only  about  thirty 
men  are  still  on  Sam  Dudlow's  trail  —  the  rest, 

200 


Mam'    Linda 

hundreds  and  hundreds,  in  bunches  an'  factions, 
each  faction  totin'  a  flag  to  show  whar  they  hail 
from,  an'  all  dressed  in  white  sheets,  is  headed  this 
way." 

"Do  you  mean  right  at  this  moment?"  Carson 
asked,  as  he  started  to  rise. 

Pole  motioned  to  him  to  sit  down. 

"They  won't  be  here  till  about  twelve  o'clock," 
he  said.  "They've  passed  the  word  about  amongst 
'em,  and  agreed  to  meet,  so  that  all  factions  can  take 
part,  at  the  old  Sandsome  place,  two  miles  out  on  the 
Springtown  road.  They  will  start  from  there  at 
half -past  eleven  on  the  march  for  the  jail.  It  will 
be  after  twelve  before  they  get  here.  Pete's  got  that 
long  to  make  his  peace,  but  no  longer.  And  right 
here,  Carson,  before  I  stop,  I  want  to  say  that  thar 
ain't  a  man  in  this  State  I'd  do  a  favor  for  quicker 
than  I  would  for  you,  but  many  of  us  here  to-night 
are  family  men,  and  while  that  nigger  may,  as  you 
think,  be  innocent,  still  his  life  is  just  one  life,  while 
— well  " — Baker  snapped  his  dry  ringers  with  a  click 
that  was  as  sharp  as  the  cocking  of  a  revolver — "  I 
wouldn't  give  that  for  our  lives  if  we  opposed  them 
men.  They  are  as  mad  as  wounded  wild  -  cats. 
They  believe  he  done  it;  they  know  on  reliable 
testimony  that  he  said  he'd  kill  Johnson;  an'  they 
want  his  blood.  Five  hundred  such  as  we  are 
wouldn't  halt  'em  a  minute.  I  want  to  help,  but 
I'm  tied  hand  an'  foot." 

There  was  silence  after  Pole's  voice  died  away. 
Then  Garner  rapped  on  the  table  with  his  small 
hand  and  tossed  back  the  long,  thick  hair  from  his 
massive  brow. 

2OI 


Mam'    Linda 

"You  may  as  well  know  the  truth,  Carson,"  he 
said,  calmly.  "We  put  it  to  a  vote  just  before  you 
came,  and  we  all  agreed  that  we  would — well,  try 
to  bring  you  round  to  some  sort  of  resignation ;  try 
to  get  you  to  throw  it  off  your  mind  and  stop 
worrying." 

To  their  surprise  Carson  took  up  the  lamp  and 
rose.  "  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  with  the  lamp 
in  hand  he  crossed  the  elevated  part  of  the  floor  and 
went  down  the  steps  into  the  cellar.  They  were  left 
in  darkness  for  a  moment,  the  rays  of  the  lamp 
flashing  now  only  on  the  front  wall  and  door  of  the 
long  building. 

"Huh,  there  ain't  anybody  hiding  there!"  Black- 
burn cautiously  called  out.  "I  looked  through  the 
full  length  of  it,  turned  over  every  box  and  barrel, 
before  you  came.  I  wasn't  going  to  run  any  risk  of 
having  a  stray  tramp  in  a  caucus  like  this." 

There  was  some  fixed  quality  in  D wight's  drawn 
face  as  he  emerged,  carrying  the  lamp  before  him, 
ascended  the  steps,  and  again  took  his  place  at  the 
table. 

"You  thought  somebody  might  be  hiding  there," 
the  store-keeper  said;  "but  I  was  careful  to — " 

"No,  it  wasn't  that,"  Carson  said.  "I  was  won- 
dering— I  was  trying  to  think — " 

He  paused  as  if  submerged  in  thought,  and  Garner 
turned  upon  him  almost  sternly.  He  had  never 
before  used  quite  such  a  harsh  tone  to  his  partner. 

"You've  gone  far  enough,  Carson,"  he  said. 
"There  are  limits  even  to  the  deepest  friendship. 
You  can't  ask  your  best  friends  to  make  their  wives 
widows,  and  their  children  orphans  in  a  blind  effort 

202 


Mam'    Linda 

to  save  the  neck  of  one  miserable  negro,  even  if  he's 
as  innocent  as  the  angels  in  heaven.  As  for  yourself, 
your  heroism  has  almost  led  you  into  a  cesspool  of 
reckless  absurdity.  You  have  let  that  old  man  and 
woman  up  there,  and  Miss — that  old  man  and  woman, 
anyway — work  on  your  sympathies  till  you  have 
lost  your  usual  judgment.  I'm  your  friend  and — 

"  Stop !  Wait !"  Carson  stood  up,  his  hands  on  the 
edge  of  the  table,  the  lamp  beneath  him  throwing  his 
mobile  face  into  the  shadow  of  his  firm,  massive  jaw. 
"  Stop!"  he  repeated.  "  You  say  you  have  given  up. 
Boys,  I  can't.  I  tell  you  I  can't.  I  simply  can't  let 
them  kill  that  boy.  Every  nerve  in  my  body,  every 
pulsation  of  my  soul  screams  out  against  it.  I  have 
set  my  heart  on  averting  this  horror.  Ten  years  ago 
I  could  have  gone  to  my  bed  and  slept  peacefully,  as 
many  good  citizens  of  this  town  will  to-night,  under 
the  knowledge  that  the  verdict  of  mob  law  was  to  be 
executed,  but  in  the  handling  of  this  case  I've  had  a 
new  birth.  There  is  no  God  in  heaven  if — I  say  if— 
He  has  not  made  it  possible  for  the  mind  and  will  of 
man  to  prevent  this  horror.  There  must  be  a  way ; 
there  is  a  way,  and  if  I  could  put  my  ideas  into  your 
brains  to-night — my  faith  and  confidence  into  your 
souls — we'd  prevent  this  calamity  and  set  an  ex- 
ample for  our  fellows  to  follow  in  future." 

"Your  ideas  into  our  brains!"  Garner  said,  in  a 
tone  of  amused  resentment.  "Well,  I  like  that, 
Carson ;  but  if  you  can  see  a  ghost  of  a  chance  to  save 
that  boy's  neck  with  safety  to  our  own,  I'd  like  to 
have  you  plug  it  through  my  skull,  if  you  have  to 
do  it  with  a  steel  drill.  At  present  I'm  the  senior 
member  of  the  firm  of  Garner  &  Dwight,  but  I'll 

203 


Mam'    Linda 

take  second  place  hereafter,  if  you  can  do  what  you 
are  aiming  at." 

"I  don't  mean  to  reflect  on  your  intelligences," 
D wight  went  on,  passionately,  his  voice  rising  higher, 
"but  I  do  see  a  way,  and  I  am  praying  God  at  this 
moment  to  make  you  see  it  as  I  do  and  be  willing  to 
help  me  carry  it  out." 

"  Blaze  away,  old  hoss,"  Pole  Baker  piped  up  from 
his  seat  on  the  nail  keg.  "I'm  not  a  nigger-lover 
by  a  long  shot,  but  somehow,  seeing  how  you  feel 
about  this  particular  one  an'  his  connections,  I'm 
as  anxious  to  save  'im  as  if  I  owned  'im  in  the  good 
old  day  an'  his  sort  was  fetchin'  two  thousand 
apiece.  You  go  ahead.  I  feel  kind  o'  sneakin', 
anyway,  for  votin'  agin  you  while  you  was  up  thar 
nursin'  yore  sick  mammy.  By  gum!  you  give  me 
the  end  of  a  log  I  kin  tote,  an'  I'll  do  it  or  break  my 
back." 

"I  want  it  understood,  Carson,"  said  Wade  Tingle 
at  this  juncture,  "that  I  was  only  voting  against 
our  trying  to  stop  that  mob  by  force,  and,  to  do  my- 
self justice,  I  was  voting  in  the  interests  of  the  family 
men  here  to-night.  God  knows,  if  you  can  see  any 
other  possible  way — " 

"We  have  no  time  to  lose,"  Carson  said.  "If  we 
are  to  accomplish  anything  we  must  be  about  it. 
Gentlemen,  what  I  may  propose  may,  in  a  way,  be 
asking  you  to  make  a  sacrifice  almost  as  great  as 
that  of  open  resistance.  I  am  going  to  ask  you, 
law-abiding  citizens  that  you  are,  to  break  the  law, 
as  you  understand  it,  but  not  law  as  the  best  wisdom 
of  man  intended  it  to  be.  This  section  is  in  a  state 
of  open  lawlessness.  The  law  I'm  going  to  ask  you 

204 


Mam'    Linda 

to  break  is  already  broken.  The  highest  court  might 
hold  that  we  would  be  no  better,  in  fact,  than  the 
army  of  law-breakers  headed  this  way  with  the  foam 
of  race  hatred  on  their  lips,  its  insane  blaze  in 
their  eyes  that  till  recently  beamed  only  in  gentle- 
ness and  human  love.  But  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to 
chose  between  two  evils — to  let  an  everlasting  in- 
justice be  done  at  the  hand  of  a  hate  that  will  drown 
in  tears  of  regret  in  time  to  come,  or  the  lesser  evil  of 
breaking  an  already  broken  law.  You  are  all  good 
citizens,  and  I  tremble  and  blush  over  my  audacity 
in  asking  you  to  do  what  you  have  never  in  any  form 
done  before." 

Carson  paused.  Wondering  silence  fell  on  the 
group.  Upon  each  face  struggled  evidences  of  an 
almost  painful  desire  to  grasp  his  meaning.  That  it 
was  momentous  no  man  there  doubted.  Even  the 
ever  equable  Garner  was  shaken  from,  his  habitual 
stoic  attitude,  and  with  his  delicate  fingers  rigidly 
supporting  his  great  head  he  stared  open-mouthed 
at  the  speaker. 

"Well,  well,  what  is  it?"  he  presently  asked. 

"There  is  only  one  chance  I  see,"  and  Dwight 
stood  erect,  his  arms  folded,  and  stepped  back  so 
that  the  light  of  the  lamp  fell  full  upon  his  tense 
features.  The  patch  of  sticking  plaster  stood  out 
from  his  pale  skin,  giving  his  perspiring  brow  an 
uncanny  look.  "There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,  my 
friends,  and  without  your  help  I  stand  powerless. 
I  suggest  that  we  form  ourselves  into  a  supposed 
mob  of  disguised  men,  that  we  go  ahead  of  the 
others  to  the  jail,  and  actually  force  Burt  Barrett  to 
turn  the  prisoner  over  to  us." 

205 


Mam'    Linda 

"  Great  God!"  Garner,  stood  up,  and  leaned  on  the 
table.  "Then  what — what  would  you  do?  Good 
Lord!" 

Carson  pointed  steadily  to  the  cellar-door  and 
swallowed  the  lump  of  excitement  in  his  throat. 
"I  would,  unseen  by  any  one,  if  possible,  bring  him 
here  and  imprison  him,  in  that  cellar,  guarded  by  us 
only  till — till  such  a  time  as  we  could  safely  deliver 
him  to  a  court  of  justice." 

"By  God,  you  are  a  wheel-hoss!"  burst  from  Pole 
Baker's  lips.  "That's  as  easy  as  fallin'  off  a  log." 

"Do  you  mean  to  make  Burt  Barrett  believe  we 
are — are  actually  bent  on  lynching  the  negro?"  de- 
manded Keith  Gordon,  new-born  enthusiasm  bub- 
bling from  his  eyes  and  voice. 

"Yes,  that  would  be  the  only  wray,"  said  Carson. 
"  Barrett  is  a  sworn  officer  of  the  law,  and  his  position 
is  his  livelihood.  Even  if  we  could  persuade  him  to 
join  us,  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  him,  for  he  would  be 
shouldering  more  responsibility  than  we  would.  The 
only  way  is  to  thoroughly  disguise  ourselves  and 
compel  him  to  give  in  as  he  will  be  compelled  by  the 
others  if  we  don't  act  first.  I  know  he  would  not 
fire  upon  us." 

"  It  looks  to  me  like  a  dandy  idea,"  spoke  up  Black- 
burn. "As  for  me  I  want  to  reward  originality  by 
doing  the  thing  if  possible.  As  for  that  cellar,  it's 
as  strong  as  an  ancient  fortress  anyway  and,  Carson, 
Pete  would  not  try  to  escape  if  you  ordered  him  not 
to.  As  for  disguises,  I  can  lend  you  all  the  bleached 
sheeting  you  want.  I  got  in  a  fresh  bale  of  it  yes- 
terday. I  could  cut  it  into  ten-yard  pieces  which 
would  not  hurt  the  sale  of  it.  Remnants  fetch  a 

206 


Mam'    Linda 

better  price  than  regular  stuff  anyway.  Boys,  let's 
vote  on  it.  All  in  favor  stand  up." 

There  was  a  clatter  of  shoes  and  rattling  of  chairs, 
boxes,  kegs  and  other  articles  which  had  been  used 
for  seats.  It  was  an  immediate  and  unanimous 
tribute  to  the  sway  Carson  D wight's  personality 
had  long  held  over  them.  They  stood  by  him  to  a 
man.  Even  Garner  suddenly,  and  strangely  for  his 
crusty  individuality,  relegated  himself  to  the  rank  of 
a  common  private  under  the  obvious  leader. 

"Hold  on,  boys!"  exclaimed  one  not  so  easily  re- 
legated to  any  position  not  full  of  action,  and  Pole 
Baker  was  heard  in  a  further  proposal.  "So  far  the 
arrangements  are  good  and  sound  but  you-uns 
haven't  looked  far  enough  ahead.  When  we  git  to 
the  jail  thar's  got  to  be  some  darned  fine  talkin'  of 
exactly  the  right  sort,  or  Burt  Barrett  will  smell  a 
mouse  and  refuse  our  demands.  In  a  case  like  this 
silence  is  a  sight  more  powerful  than  a  lot  o'  gab. 
Now,  I  propose  to  have  one  man,  and  one  man  only 
to  do  the  talking." 

"Yes,  and  you  are  the  man,"  said  Carson.  "You 
must  do  it." 

' '  Well,  I'm  willin  Y '  agreed  Baker.  ' '  The  truth  'is, 
folks  say  I'm  good  at  just  that  sort  o'  devilment,  an' 
I'd  sort  o'  like  the  job." 

"You  are  the  very  man,"  Carson  said,  with  a 
smile. 

"You  bet  he  is,"  agreed  Blackburn.  "  Now  come 
down  in  the  store  an'  let  me  rig  you  spooks  up.  We 
haven't  any  too  much  time  to  lose." 

"Thar's  another  thing  you-uns  don't  seem  to  have 
calculated  on,"  said  Baker,  as  Blackburn  was  lead- 

207 


Mam'   Linda 

ing  them  down  to  the  dry-goods  counter.  "It  may 
take  time  to  quiet  public  excitement,  even  if  we  put 
this  thing  through  to-night.  You  propose  to  let  the 
impression  go  out  that  thar  was  a  lynchin'.  How 
will  you  keep  'em  from  thinkin'  it's  a  fake  unless 
they  see  some'n'  hangin'  to  a  tree-limb  in  the 
mornin'?  If  they  thought  we'd  put  up  a  job  on 
'em,  they  would  nose  around  till  they  was  onto  the 
whole  business,  an'  then  thar  would  be  the  devil  to 
pay." 

"You  are  right  about  that,"  said  Garner.  "If 
we  could  convince  the  big  mob  that  Pete  has  been 
lynched  in  some  secret  way  or  place,  by  some  other 
party,  who  don't  want  to  be  known  in  the  matter, 
the  excitement  would  die  down  in  a  day  or  so." 

"A  bang-up  good  idea!"  was  Pole's  ultimatum. 
"Leave  it  to  me  and  I'll  study  up  some  way  to  put  it 
to  Burt — by  gum!  How  about  tellin'  'im  that,  for 
reasons  of  our  own,  we  intend  to  hide  the  body  whar 
the  niggers  can't  git  at  it  to  give  it  decent  burial? 
I  really  believe  that  would  go  down." 

"Splendid,  splendid!"  said  Garner.  "Work  that 
fine  enough,  Pole,  and  it  will  give  us  more  time  for 
everything." 

"Well,  I  can  work  it  all  right  if  I  am  to  do  the 
talkin',"  Pole  said,  as  he  reached  out  for  his  portion 
of  the  sheeting:. 


XXVI 

fIFTEEN  minutes  later  a  spectral  group 
in  all  truth  filed  out  through  the  rear 
door  of  the  store  and  paused  for  further 
orders  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  of  the 
;  adjoining  bank  building.  The  sky  was 
still  darkly  overcast  and  a  drizzle  as  fine  as  mist  was 
in  the  air. 

With  Carson  and  Pole  in  the  lead,  the  party  march- 
ed grimly  two  and  two,  a  weird  sight  even  to  them- 
selves. Straight  down  the  alley  behind  the  stores 
along  the  railway  they  moved,  keeping  step  like 
trained  military  men.  Pole,  for  visual  effect,  carried 
a  coil  of  new  hemp  rope,  and  he  swung  it  about  in  his 
white,  winglike  clutch  with  the  ease  of  a  cow-boy, 
as  he  gutturally  gave  orders  as  to  turns  and  tentative 
pauses.  Now  and  then  he  would  leave  the  others 
standing  and  stride  ahead  through  the  darkness  and 
signal  them  to  come  on  up.  In  this  way  they 
progressed  with  many  a  halt,  and  many  a  cautious 
detour  to  avoid  the  light  that  steadily  gleamed 
through  some  cottage  window  or  chink  in  a  door  or 
some  watchman  at  his  post  at  some  mill  or  factory, 
till  finally  they  reached  the  grounds  surrounding  the 
court-house  and  jail. 

"  I  don't  know  how  soft-hearted  you  are,  Carson," 
Baker  whispered  in  the  young  man's  ear,  "but 

209 


Mam'   Linda 

thar's  one  thing  a  man  full  of  feelin'  like  you  seem 
to  be  ought  to  be  ready  to  guard  against." 

"What  is  that,  Pole?" 

"Why,  you  know,  if  we  git  the  poor  devil  out  he'll 
be  sure  he's  done  for,  an'  he'll  be  apt  to  raise  an'  aw- 
ful row,  beggin'  an'  prayin'  an'  no  tellin'  what  else. 
But  for  all  you  do,  don't  open  yore  mouth.  Let  'im 
bear  it — tough  as  it  will  be — till  we  kin  git  to  a  safe 
place.  Thar'll  be  folks  listenin'  in  the  houses  along 
the  way  to  the  store,  an'  ef  you  was  to  speak  one 
kind  word  the  truth  might  leak  out.  To  all  ap- 
pearances we  are  lynchers  of  the  most  rabid  brand." 

"I  understand  that,  Pole,"  said  Carson.  " I  won't 
interfere  with  your  work." 

"Don't  call  it  my  work,"  said  Baker,  admiringly. 
"I've  been  through  a  sight  of  secret  things  in  my 
time,  but  I  never  heard  of  a  scheme  as  slick  an'  deep- 
laid  as  this.  If  she  goes  through  safe  I'll  put  you  at 
the  top  of  my  list.  It  looks  like  it  will  work,  but  a 
body  never  kin  tell.  Burt  Barrett  is  the  next  hill  to 
climb.  I  don't  know  him  well  enough  to  foresee 
what  stand  he'll  take.  Boys,  have  yore  guns  ready, 
an'  when  I  order  you  to  take  aim,  you  do  it  as  if  you 
intend  to  make  a  hole  in  whatever  is  in  front  of  you. 
Our  bluff  is  the  biggest  that  ever  was  thought  of,  bxit 
it  has  to  go.  Now,  come  on!" 

Through  the  open  gateway  they  marched  across 
the  public  lawn  covered  with  fresh  green  grass  to 
the  jail  near  by.  A  dog  chained  in  a  kennel  behind 
the  house  waked  and  snarled,  but  he  did  not  bark. 
There  was  a  little  porch  at  the  entrance  to  the  build- 
ing, and  along  this  the  ghostly  band  silently  arranged 
themselves. 


"'WE'VE  COME  AFTER  THAT  NIGGER,'  SAID  BAKER" 


Mam'    Linda 

"Hello  in  thar,  Burt  Barrett!"  Pole  suddenly  cried 
out,  in  sharp,  stern  tones,  and  there  was  a  pause. 
Then  from  the  darkness  within  came  the  sound  of 
some  one  striking  a  match.  A  flickering  light  flared 
up  in  the  room  on  the  right  of  the  entrance ;  then  the 
voice  of  a  woman  was  heard. 

"Burt,  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  in  a  startled  tone. 

"I  don't  know;  I'll  see,"  a  coarser  voice  made 
answer.  Another  pause  and  a  door  on  the  inside 
was  opened,  then  the  heavier  outer  one,  and  Burt 
Barrett,  half  dressed,  stood  staring  at  the  grewsome 
assemblage  before  him. 

"We've  come  after  that  damned  nigger,"  said 
Baker,  succinctly,  his  tone  so  low  in  his  throat  that 
even  an  intimate  friend  would  not  have  recognized 
it,  and  as  he  spoke  he  raised  his  coil  of  rope  and 
tapped  the  floor  of  the  porch. 

Barrett,  as  many  a  brave  man  would  have  done 
in  his  place,  stood  helplessly  bewildered.  Presently 
he  drew  himself  together  and  said,  firmly: 

"Gentlemen,  I'm  a  sworn  officer  of  the  law.  I've 
got  a  duty  to  perform  and  I'm  going  to  do  it."  And 
thereupon  they  saw  the  barrel  of  a  revolver  which 
the  jailer  held  in  his  hand.  In  the  awful  stillness 
that  engulfed  his  words  the  click  of  its  hammer,  as 
the  weapon  was  cocked,  sounded  sharp  and  distinct. 

"Too  bad,  but  he's  goin'  to  act  ugly,  boys," 
Pole  said,  with  grim  finality.  "He  is  a  white  man 
in  looks,  but  he's  j'ined  forces  with  the  black  devils 
that  are  bent  on  rulin'  our  land.  Steady,  take  aim! 
If  thar's  less'n  twenty  holes  in  his  carcass  when  he's 
examined  in  the  mornin'  it  will  stand  for  some  mem- 
ber's eternal  disgrace.  Aim  careful!" 

211 


Mam'    Linda 

There  was  a  startled  scream  at  the  half -open 
window  of  the  bedroom  on  the  right  and  the  jailer's 
wife  thrust  out  her  head. 

"Don't  shoot  'im!"  she  screamed.  "Don't!  Give 
'em  the  keys,  Burt.  Are  you  a  fool  ?" 

"  He  certainly  looks  it,"  was  Baker's  comment,  in  a 
tone  of  well-assumed  only  half -bridled  rage.  "Give 
'im  ten  seconds  to  drap  them  keys,  boys.  I'll  count. 
When  I  say  ten  blaze  away,  an'  let  a  yawnin'  hell 
take  'im." 

"Gentlemen,  I—" 

"Burt!  Burt!  what  do  you  mean?"  the  woman 
cried  again.  "  Are  you  plumb  crazy  ?" 

' '  One !"  counted  Pole—' '  two  '.—three—' ' 

"I  want  to  do  what's  right,"  the  jailer  temporized. 
"Of  course,  I'm  overpowered,  and  if — " 

"Five! — six!"  went  on  Pole,  his  voice  ringing  out 
clear  and  piercing. 

There  was  a  jingling  of  steel.  The  spectators, 
peering  through  ragged  eye-holes  in  their  white  caps, 
saw  the  bunch  of  keys  as  it  emerged  from  Barrett's 
pocket  and  fell  to  the  doorstep. 

"Gentlemen,  you  may  live  to  be  sorry  for  this 
night's  work,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  care  what  we're  sorry  for,"  Pole 
said,  grimly, '  'just  so  you  ain't  turned  into  a  two-legged 
sifter?  Now" — as  he  stooped  to  pick  up  the  keys— 
"you  git  back  in  thar  to  yore  wife  an'  children.  We 
simply  mean  business  an'  know  what  we  are  about. 
An'  look  here,  Burt  Barrett" — Pole  nudged  Carson, 
who  stood  close  to  him — ' '  thar '11  be  another  gang  here 
in  a  few  minutes  on  the  same  business.  You  kin  tell 
'em  we  beat  'em  to  the  hitchin'-post,  an',  moreover, 

212 


Mam*    Linda 

you  kin  tell  'em  that  we  said  that  when  we  settle  this 
nigger's  hash  them  nor  nobody  else  will  ever  be  able 
to  find  hair  or  hide  of  'im.  A  buryin'  to  the  general 
run  o'  niggers  is  their  greatest  joy  an'  pride,  but 
they'll  never  cut  up  high  jinks  over  this  one." 

"Good,  by  Heaven!"  Garner  chuckled,  as  he  re- 
called Pole's  diplomatic  suggestion  at  the  store. 

Without  another  word  of  protest  the  jailer  re- 
ceded into  the  house,  leaving  the  door  open,  and, 
led  by  Pole,  the  others  entered  the  hallway  with  a 
firm  tread  and  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  floor  above. 
All  was  still  here,  and  so  dark  that  Baker  lighted  a 
bit  of  candle  and  held  it  over  his  head.  Knowing 
the  cell  in  which  Pete  was  confined,  Carson  led  them 
to  its  door.  As  they  paused  there  and  Pole  was 
fumbling  with  the  keys,  a  low,  stifled  scream  escaped 
from  the  prisoner,  and  then,  in  the  dim,  checkered 
light  thrown  by  the  candle  through  the  bars,  they 
saw  the  negro  standing  close  against  the  farthest 
grating.  Pole  had  found  the  right  key  and  opened 
the  door. 

"It's  all  up  with  you,  Pete  Warren,"  he  said; 
"you  needn't  make  a  row.  You've  got  to  take  your 
medicine.  Come  on." 

"Oh,  my  God,  my  God!"  cried  the  negro,  as  with 
great,  glaring  eyes  he  gazed  upon  them.  "I  never 
done  it.  I  never  done  it.  Don't  kill  me!" 

"  Bring  'im  on,  boys!"  Pole  produced  an  artificial 
oath  with  difficulty,  for  he  really  was  deeply  moved. 
"Bring  'im  on!" 

Two  of  the  spectres  seized  Pete's  hands  just  as 
his  quaking  knees  bent  under  him  and  he  was  falling 
down.  He  started  to  pull  back,  and  then,  evidently 

213 


Mam'    Linda 

realizing  the  utter  futility  of  resisting  such  an  over- 
whelming force,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  led  through 
the  door  of  the  cell  and  down  the  stairs  into  the  yard. 

"I  never  done  it,  before  God  I  never  done  it!"  he 
went  on,  sobbing  like  a  child.  "Don't  kill  me, 
white  folks.  Gi'  me  one  chance.  Tek  me  ter  Marse 
Carson  Dwight;  he'll  tell  you  I  ain't  de  man." 

"He'll  tell  us  a  lot!"  growled  Baker,  with  another 
of  his  mechanical  oaths.  "Dry  up!" 

' '  Oh,  my  God  have  mercy ! ' '  For  the  first  time  Pete 
noticed  the  coil  of  rope  and  the  sight  of  it  redoubled 
his  terror.  On  his  knees  he  sank,  trying  to  cover  his 
eyes  with  his  imprisoned  hands,  and  quivering  like 
an  aspen.  Hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing, 
Carson  Dwight  impulsively  bent  over  him,  but 
before  he  had  opened  his  lips  the  watchful  Baker 
had  roughly  drawn  him  back. 

"Don't,  for  God's  sake!"  the  mountaineer  whis- 
pered, warningly,  and  he  pointed  across  the  street 
to  the  houses  near  by.  Indeed,  as  if  to  sanction  his 
precaution,  a  window-sash  in  the  upper  story  of  the 
nearest  house  was  raised,  and  a  pale,  white-haired 
man  looked  out.  It  was  the  leading  Methodist 
preacher  of  the  place.  For  one  moment  he  stared 
down  on  them,  as  if  struck  dumb  by  the  terror  of  the 
scene. 

"In  the  name  of  Christ,  our  Lord,  our  Saviour,  be 
merciful,  neighbors,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook. 
"  Don't  commit  this  crime  against  yourselves  and  the 
community  you  live  in.  Spare  him!  In  the  name 
of  God,  hand  him  back  to  the  protection  of  the 
law." 

"The  law  be  hanged,  parson,"  Pole  retorted,  as 
214 


Mam'    Linda 

part  of  his  rare  r61e.  "We  are  looking  after  that; 
thar  hain't  no  law  in  this  country  that's  wuth  a  hill 
o'  beans." 

"  Be  merciful — give  the  man  a  chance  for  his  life," 
the  preacher  repeated.  ' '  Many  think  he  is  innocent ! ' ' 

Hearing  that  plea  in  his  behalf,  Pete  screamed 
out  and  tried  to  extend  his  hands  supplicatingly 
towards  his  defender,  but  under  Baker's  insistent 
orders  he  was  dragged,  now  struggling  more  des- 
perately, farther  down  the  street. 

"Ah,  Pole,  tell  the  poor—  "  Keith  Gordon  began, 
when  the  mountaineer  sharply  commanded: 

"Dry  up!  You  are  disobeyin'  orders.  Hurry  up; 
bring  'im  on.  That  other  gang  may  hear  this  racket, 
and  then — come  on,  I  tell  you!  You  violate  my 
leadership  and  I'll  have  you  court-martialled. " 

In  some  fashion  or  other  they  moved  on  down 
the  street,  now  taking  a  more  direct  way  to  the  store 
in  the  fear  that  they  might  be  met  by  the  expected 
lynchers  and  foiled  in  their  purpose.  They  had 
traversed  the  entire  length  of  the  street  leading  from 
the  court-house  to  the  bank  building,  and  were 
about  to  turn  the  corner  to  reach  the  rear  door  of 
the  store,  when,  in  a  qualm  of  fresh  despair,  Pete's 
knees  actually  gave  way  beneath  him  and  he  sank 
limply  to  the  sidewalk. 

"Lord,  I  reckon  we'll  have  to  tote  'im!"  Pole  said. 
"  Pick  'im  up,  boys,  and  be  quick  about  it.  This  is  a 
ticklish  spot.  Let  one  person  see  us  and  the  game 
will  be  up." 

Pete  clearly  misunderstood  this,  and  seeing  in  the 
words  a  hint  that  help  or  protection  was  not  far  away, 
he  suddenly  opened  his  mouth  and  began  to  scream, 
is  215 


Mam'   Linda 

As  quick  as  a  flash  Carson,  who  was  immediately 
behind  him,  clapped  his  hand  over  his  lips  and 
said,  "Hush,  for  God's  sake,  Pete,  we  are  your 
friends!" 

With  his  mouth  still  closed  by  the  hand  upon  it, 
the  negro  could  only  stare  into  Carson's  mask  too 
terrified  to  grasp  more  than  that  he  had  heard  a 
kindly  voice. 

"Hush,  Pete,  not  a  word!  We  are  trying  to  save 
you,"  and  Carson  removed  his  hand. 

"  Who  dat  ?  Oh,  my  God,  who  dat  talkin'  ?"  Pete 
gasped. 

"Carson  Dwight,"  said  the  young  man.  "Now 
hush,  and  hurry." 

"Thank  God  it  you,  Marse  Carson — oh,  Marse 
Carson,  Marse  Carson,  you  ain't  gwine  ter  let  um 
kill  me!" 

"No,  you  are  safe,  Pete." 

In  a  rush  they  now  bore  him  round  the  corner, 
and  then  pausing  at  the  door  of  the  store,  to  be  cer- 
tain that  no  extraneous  eye  was  on  them,  they  wait- 
ed breathlessly  for  an  order  from  their  leader. 

"  All  right,  in  you  go!"  presently  came  from  Pole's 
deep  voice,  in  a  great  breath  of  relief.  "  Open  the 
door,  quick!" 

The  shutter  creaked  and  swung  back  into  the  black 
void  of  the  store,  and  the  throng  pressed  inward. 
The  door  was  closed.  The  darkness  was  profound. 

' '  Wait ;  listen ! ' '  Pole  cautioned.  ' '  Thar  might  be 
somebody  on  the  sidewalk  at  the  front." 

"Oh,  my  God,  Marse  Carson,  is  you  here?"  came 
from  the  quaking  negro. 

"Sh!"  and  Pole  imposed  silence.  For  a  moment 
216 


Mam'    Linda 

they  stood  so  still  that  only  the  rapid  panting  of  the 
negro  was  audible. 

"All  right,  we  are  safe,"  Baker  said.  "But, 
gosh!  it  was  a  close  shave!  Strike  a  light  an'  let's 
try  to  ease  up  this  feller.  I  hated  to  be  rough,  but 
somebody  had  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  it  had  to  be,"  said  Dwight.  "  Pete,  you  are 
with  friends.  Strike  a  light,  Blackburn,  the  poor 
boy  is  scared  out  of  his  wits." 

"Oh,  Marse  Carson,  what  dis  mean?  what  you-all 
gwine  ter  do  ter  me?" 

Blackburn  had  groped  to  the  lamp  on  the  table 
and  was  scratching  a  match  and  applying  the  flame 
to  the  wick.  The  yellow  light  flashed  out,  and  a 
strange  sight  met  the  bewildered  gaze  of  the  negro 
as  kindly  faces  and  familiar  forms  gradually  emerged 
from  the  sheeting.  Near  him  stood  Dwight,  and 
grasping  his  hand,  Pete  clung  to  it  desperately. 

"Oh,  Marse  Carson,  what  dey  gwine  ter  do  ter 
me?" 

"Nothing,  Pete,  you  are  all  right  now,"  Carson 
said,  as  tenderly  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  a  hurt 
child.  "The  mob  was  coming  and  we  had  to  do 
what  we  did  to  save  you."  He  explained  the  plan 
of  keeping  him  hidden  in  the  cellar  for  a  few  days, 
and  asked  Pete  if  he  would  consent  to  it. 

"I'll  do  anything  you  say,  Marse  Carson,"  the 
negro  answered.  "You  know  what's  best  fer  me." 

"I've  got  an  old  mattress  here,"  Blackburn  spoke 
up;  "boys,  let's  get  it  into  the  cellar.  It  will  make 
him  comfortable." 

And  with  no  sense  of  the  incongruity  of  their  act, 
considering  that  as  the  sons  of  ex-slave-holders  they 

217 


Mam'   Linda 

had  never  in  their  lives  waited  upon  a  negro,  Wade 
Tingle  and  Keith  Gordon  drew  the  dusty  mattress 
from  a  dry -goods  box  in  the  corner  of  the  room  and 
bore  the  cumbersome  thing  through  the  cellar  door- 
way into  the  cob  webbed  darkness  beneath.  Black- 
burn followed  with  a  candle,  indicating  the  best- 
ventilated  spot  for  its  placement.  Thither  Carson 
led  his  still  benumbed  client,  who  would  move  only 
at  his  bidding,  and  then  like  a  jerky  automaton. 

"  You  won't  be  afraid  to  stay  here,  will  you,  Pete  ?" 
he  asked. 

The  negro  stared  round  him  at  the  encroaching 
shadows  in  childlike  perturbation. 

"You  gwine  ter  lock  me  in,  Marse  Carson?"  he 
asked. 

Carson  explained  that  in  a  sense  he  was  still  a 
prisoner,  but  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  friends — 
friends  who  had  pledged  themselves  to  see  that 
justice  was  done  him.  The  negro  slowly  lowered 
himself  to  the  mattress  and  stretched  out  his  legs 
on  the  stone  pavement.  An  utter  droop  of  despair 
seemed  to  settle  on  him.  From  the  depths  of  his 
wide-open  eyes  came  a  stare  of  dejection  complete. 

"Den  I  hain't  free?"  he  said. 

"No,  not  wholly,  Pete,"  Carson  returned;  "not 
quite  yet." 

' '  Dry  up  down  thar .  Listen ! "  It  was  Baker's  voice 
in  a  guarded  tone  as  he  stood  in  the  cellar  doorway. 

The  group  around  the  negro  held  its  breath.  The 
grinding  of  footsteps  on  the  floor  over  their  heads 
ceased.  Then  from  the  outside  came  the  steady 
tramp  of  many  feet  on  the  brick  sidewalk,  the  clatter 
of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  street. 

218 


Mam'    Linda 

"  Sh!  Blow  out  the  light,"  Carson  said,  and  Black- 
burn extinguished  it.  Profound  darkness  and  still- 
ness filled  the  long  room.  Like  an  army,  still  voice- 
less and  grimly  determined,  the  human  current  flowed 
jail  ward.  It  must  have  numbered  several  hundred, 
judged  by  the  time  it  took  to  pass.  The  sound  was 
dying  out  in  the  distance  when  Carson,  the  last  to 
leave  Pete,  crept  from  the  cellar,  locked  the  door,  and 
joined  the  others  in  the  darkness  above. 

"That  mob  would  hang  every  man  of  us  if  they 
caught  on  to  our  trick,"  said  Baker,  with  a  queer, 
exultant  chuckle. 

Carson  moved  past  him  towards  the  front  door. 

"Where  you  goin'?"  Pole  asked,  sharply. 

"  I  want  to  see  how  the  land  lies  on  the  outside," 
answered  Carson. 

"You'll  be  crazy  if  you  go,"  said  Blackburn,  and 
the  others  pressed  round  Dwight  and  anxiously  join- 
ed in  the  protest. 

"No,  I  must  go,"  Dwight  firmly  persisted.  "We 
ought  to  find  out  exactly  what  that  crowd  thinks 
to-night,  so  we'll  know  what  to  depend  on.  If  they 
think  a  lynching  took  place  they  will  go  home 
satisfied;  if  not,  as  Pole  says,  they  may  suspect  us, 
and  the  most  godless  riot  that  ever  blackened  human 
history  may  take  place  here  in  this  town." 

"  He's  right,"  declared  the  mountaineer.  "  Some- 
body ought  to  go.  I  really  think  I'm  the  man,  by 
rights,  an'— 

"No,  I  want  to  satisfy  myself,"  was  Dwight's 
ultimatum.  "Stay  here  till  I  come  back." 

Blackburn  accompanied  him  to  the  front  door, 
cautiously  looked  out,  and  then  let  him  pass  through. 

219 


Mam'   Linda 

"  Knock  when  you  get  back — no,  here,  take  the  key 
to  the  back  door  and  let  yourself  in.  So  far,  so  good, 
my  boy,  but  this  is  absolutely  the  most  ticklish  job 
we  ever  tackled.  But  I'm  with  you.  I  glory  in 
your  spunk." 

There  was  a  swelling  murmuring,  like  the  onward 
sweep  of  a  storm  from  the  direction  of  the  court- 
house. Voices  growing  louder  and  increasing  in 
volume  reached  their  ears. 

"Wait  for  me.  Keep  the  lights  out  for  all  you 
do,"  Dwight  said,  and  off  he  strode  in  the  darkness. 

In  the  gloom  and  stillness  of  the  store  the  others 
waited  his  return,  hardly  daring  to  raise  their  voices 
above  a  whisper.  He  was  gone  nearly  an  hour,  and 
then  they  heard  the  key  softly  turned  in  the  lock 
and  presently  he  stood  in  their  midst. 

"They've  about  dispersed,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
intense  fatigue.  "They  lay  it  to  the  Hillbend  fac- 
tion, who  had  some  disagreement  with  them  to-day. 
They  seem  satisfied." 

"Gentlemen"  —  it  was  Garner's  voice  from  his 
chair  at  the  table — "there's  one  thing  that  must  be 
regarded  as  sacred  by  us  to-night,  and  that  is  the 
absolute  secrecy  of  this  thing." 

"Good  Lord,  you  don't  think  any  of  us  would  be 
fool  enough  to  talk  about  it!"  exclaimed  Blackburn, 
in  an  almost  startled  tone  over  the  bare  suggestion. 
"  If  I  thought  there  was  a  man  here  who  would  blab 
this  to  a  living  soul,  I'd — 

"Well,  I  only  wanted  to  impress  that  on  you  all," 
said  Garner.  "To  all  intents  and  purposes  we  are 
law-breakers,  and  I'm  a  member  of  the  Georgia  bar. 
Where  are  you  going,  Carson?" 

220 


Mam'   Linda 

"Down  to  speak  to  Pete,"  answered  Dwight.  "I 
want  to  try  to  pacify  him." 

When  he  came  back  a  moment  later  he  said: 
"I've  promised  to  stay  here  till  daylight.  Nothing 
else  will  satisfy  him ;  he's  broken  all  to  pieces,  crying 
like  a  nervous  woman.  As  soon  as  I  agreed  to  stay 
he  quieted  down." 

"Well,  I'll  keep  you  company,"  said  Keith.  "I 
can  sleep  like  a  top  on  one  of  the  counters." 

"Hold  on,  there  is  something  else,"  Carson  said, 
as  they  were  moving  to  the  rear  door.  ' '  You  know 
the  news  will  go  out  in  the  morning  that  Pete  was 
taken  off  somewhere  and  actually  lynched.  This 
will  be  a  terrible  blow  to  his  parents,  and  I  want  per- 
mission from  you  all  to  let  those  two,  at  least,  know 
that—" 

"No!"  Garner  cried,  firmly,  even  fiercely,  as  he 
turned  and  struck  the  counter  near  him  with  his 
open  hand.  "There  you  go  with  your  eternal  sen- 
timent! I  tell  you  this  is  a  grave  happening  to- 
night— grave  for  us  and  still  graver  for  Pete.  Once 
let  that  mob  find  out  that  they  were  tricked  and 
they  will  hang  our  man  or  burn  this  town  in  the 
effort." 

"I  understand  that  well  enough,"  admitted 
Dwight,  "but  the  Lord  knows  we  could  trust  his  own 
flesh  and  blood  when  they  have  so  much  at  stake." 

"  I  am  not  willing  to  risk  it,  if  you  are,"  said  Gar- 
ner, crisply,  glancing  round  at  the  others  for  their 
sanction.  ' '  It  will  be  an  awful  thing  for  them  to  hear 
the  current  report  in  the  morning,  but  they'd  better 
stand  it  for  a  few  days  than  to  spoil  the  whole  thing. 
A  negro  is  a  negro,  and  if  Lewis  and  Linda  knew  the 

221 


Mam'    Linda 

truth  they  would  be  Shouting  instead  of  weeping  and 
the  rest  of  the  darkies  would  suspect  the  truth." 

"That's  a  fact,"  Blackburn  put  in,  reluctantly. 
"Negroes  are  quick  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  things, 
and  with  no  dead  body  in  sight  to  substantiate  a 
lynching  story  they  would  smell  a  mouse  and  hunt 
for  it  till  they  found  it.  No,  Carson,  real  weeping 
right  now  from  the  mammy  and  daddy  will  help  us 
out  more  than  anything  else.  Yes,  they  will  have 
to  bear  it;  they  will  be  all  the  happier  in  the  end." 

' '  I  suppose  you  are  right, ' '  Dwight  gave  in.  ' '  But 
it's  certainly  tough." 


XXVII 

was  just  at  the  break  of  day  the  fol- 
lowing morning.     Major  Warren,  who 
had  not  retired  until  late  the  night  be- 
fore in  his  perturbed  state  of  mind  over 
the  calamity  which  hovered  in  the  air, 
was  sleeping  lightly,  when  he  was  awakened  by  the 
almost  noiseless  presence  of  some  one  in  his  room. 
Sitting  up  in  bed  he  stared  through  the  half  dark- 
ness at  a  form  which  towered  straight  and  still 
between  him  and  the  open  window  through  which 
the  first  touches  of  the  new  day  were  stealing. 
"Who's  there?"  he  demanded,  sharply. 
"It's  me,  Marse  William — Lewis." 
' '  Oh,  you !"  The  Major  put  his  feet  down  to  the  rug 
at  the  side  of  his  bed,  still  not  fully  awake.     "Well, 
is  it  time  to  get  up  ?     Anything — wrong  ?     Oh,  I  re- 
member now — Pete!" 

A  groan  from  the  great  chest  of  the  negro  set  the 
air  to  vibrating,  but  he  said  nothing,  and  the  old 
gentleman  saw  the  bald  pate  suddenly  sink. 

"Oh,  Lewis,  I  hope —  '  Major  Warren  paused, 
unable  to  continue,  so  vast  and  grewsome  were  the 
fears  his  servant's  attitude  had  inspired.  The  old 
negro  took  a  step  or  two  forward  and  then  said : 

"Oh,  marster,  dey  done  tuck  'im  out  las'  night — 
dey  tuck  my  po'  boy—  A  great  sob  rose  in  old 
Lewis's  breast  and  burst  on  his  lips. 

223 


Mam'  Linda 

"Really,  you  don't  mean  it — you  can't,  after — " 

"Yasser,  yasser;  he  daid,  marster.  Pete  done 
gone!  Dey  killed  'im  las'  night,  Marse  William." 

"  But — but  how  do  you  know?" 

"I  des  dis  minute  seed  Jake  Tobines;  he  slipped 
up  ter  my  house  en  called  me  out.  Jake  lives  back 
'hind  de  jail,  Marse  William,  en  when  de  mob  come 
him  en  his  wife  heard  de  racket  en  slipped  out  in  de 
co'n-patch  ter  hide.  He  seed  de  gang,  marster,  wid 
his  own  eyes,  en  heard  um  ax  fer  de  boy.  At  fus 
Marse  Barrett  refused  ter  give  'im  up,  but  dey  order- 
ed fire  on  'im  en  he  let  um  have  de  keys.  Jake  seed 
um  fetch  Pete  out,  en  heard  'im  beggin'  um  ter  spar' 
his  life,  but  dey  drug  'im  off." 

There  was  silence  broken  only  by  the  old  negro's 
sobs  and  the  smothered  effort  he  was  making  to 
restrain  his  emotion. 

"And  mammy,"  the  Major  began,  presently;  "has 
she  heard?" 

"Not  yit,  marster,  but  she  is  awake — she  been 
awake  all  night  long — on  her  knees  prayin'  most  er 
de  time  fer  mercy — she  was  awake  when  Jake  come 
en  she  knowed  I  went  out  ter  speak  ter  'im,  en  when 
I  come  back  in  de  house,  marster,  she  went  in  de 
kitchen.  I  know  what  she  done  dat  fur— she  didn't 
want  ter  know,  suh,  fer  certain,  ef  I'd  heard  bad  news 
or  not.  I  wanted  ter  let  'er  know,  but  I  was  afeared 
ter  tell  'er,  en  come  away.  I  loves  my  wife,  marster 
— I — I  loves  her  mo'  now  dat  Pete's  gone  dan  ever 
befo'.  I  loves  'er  mo'  since  she  been  had  ter  suffer 
dis  way,  en,  marster,  dis  gwine  ter  kill  'er.  It  gwine 
ter  kill  Lindy,  Marse  William." 

"What's  the  matter,  father?"  It  was  Helen 
224 


Mam'    Linda 

Warren's  voice,  and  with  a  look  of  growing  terror 
on  her  face  she  stood  peering  through  the  open 
doorway.  The  Major  ejaculated  a  hurried  and  bro- 
ken explanation,  and  with  little,  intermittent  gasps 
of  horror  the  young  lady  advanced  to  the  old 
negro. 

"Does  Mam'  Linda  know?"  she  asked,  her  face 
ghastly  and  set  in  sculptural  rigidity. 

"Not  yet,  missy,  not  yet — it  gwine  ter  kill  yo' 
ol'  mammy,  child." 

"Yes,  it  may,"  Helen  said,  an  odd,  alien  quality  of 
resignation  in  her  voice.  "I  suppose  I'd  better  go 
and  break  it  to  her.  Father,  Pete  was  innocent,  ab- 
solutely innocent.  Carson  Dwight  assured  me  of  it. 
He  was  innocent,  and  yet — oh!" 

With  a  shudder  she  turned  back  to  her  room 
across  the  hall.  In  the  stillness  the  sound  of  the 
match  she  struck  to  light  her  lamp  was  raspingly 
audible.  Without  another  word,  and  wringing  the 
extended  hand  of  his  wordless  master,  Lewis  crept 
down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  pale  light  of  early 
morning.  Like  an  old  tree  fiercely  beaten  by  a  storm, 
he  leaned  towards  the  earth.  He  looked  about  him 
absently  for  a  moment,  and  then  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  veranda  floor  and  lowered  his  head  to  his 
brown,  sinewy  hands. 

A  negro  woman  with  a  milk-pail  on  her  arm  came 
up  the  walk  from  the  gate  and  started  round  the 
house  to  the  kitchen  door,  but  seeing  him  she  stopped 
and  leaned  over  him.  "Is  what  Jake  done  say  de 
trufe?"  she  asked. 

"  Yassum,  yassum,  it  done  over,  Mary  Lou — done 
over,"  Lewis  said,  looking  up  at  her  from  his  blear- 

225 


Mam'    Linda 

ing  eyes;  "but  ef  you  see  Lindy  don't  let  on  ter  her 
yit.     Young  miss  gwine  ter  tell  'er  fust." 

"Oh,  my  Lawd,  it  done  over,  den!"  the  woman 
said,  shudderingly ;  "it  gwine  ter  go  hard  with  Mam' 
Lindy,  Unc'  Lewis." 

"It  gwine  ter  kill  'er,  Mary  Lou;  she  won't  live 
dis  week  out.  I  know  'er.  She  had  ernough  dis 
life  wid  all  she  been  thoo  fur  'erself  en  her  white 
folks,  in  bondage  en  out,  en'  dis  gwine  ter  settle  'er. 
I  don't  blame  'er.  I'm  done  thoo  myse'f.  Ef  de 
Lawd  had  spar'  my  child,  I  wouldn't  er  ax  mo',  but, 
Mary  Lou,  I  hope  I  ain't  gwine  ter  stay  long.  I'll 
hear  dat  po'  boy  beggin'  fer  mercy  every  minute 
while  I  live,  en  what  I  want  mo'  of  it  fur?  Shucks! 
no,  I'm  raidy — en,  'fo'  God,  I  wish  dey  had  er  tuck 
us  all  three  at  once.  Dat  ud  'a'  been  some  comfort, 
but  fer  Pete  ter  be  by  hisse'f  beggin'  um  ter  spar' 
'im — all  by  hisse'f,  en  me'n  his  mammy — " 

The  old  man's  head  went  down  and  his  body  shook 
with  sobs.  The  woman  looked  at  him  a  moment, 
and  then,  wiping  her  eyes  on  her  apron,  she  went  on 
her  way. 

A  few  minutes  later,  just  as  the  red  sun  was  rising 
in  a  clear  sky  and  turning  the  night's  moisture  into 
dazzling  gems  on  the  grass  and  leaves  of  trees  and 
shrubbery,  like  the  beneficent  smile  of  God  upon  a 
pleasing  world,  Helen  descended  the  stairs.  She 
had  the  sweet,  pale  face  of  a  suffering  nun  as 
she  paused,  looked  down  on  the  old  servant,  and 
caught  his  piteous  and  yet  grateful,  upturned 
glance. 

"I'm  going  to  her  now,  Uncle  Lewis,"  she  said. 
"  I  want  to  be  the  first  to  tell  her." 

226 


Mam'    Linda 

"Yes,  you  mus'  be  de  one,"  Lewis  sighed,  as  he 
rose  stiffly;  "you  de  onliest  one." 

He  shambled  along  in  her  wake,  his  old  hat,  out 
of  respect  for  her  presence,  grasped  in  his  tense  hand. 
As  they  drew  near  the  little  sagging  gate  at  the  cot- 
tage there  was  a  sound  of  moving  feet  within,  and 
Linda  stood  in  the  doorway  shading  her  eyes  from 
the  rays  of  the  sun  with  her  fat  hand.  To  the  end  of 
her  life  Helen  had  the  memory  of  the  old  woman's 
face  stamped  on  her  brain.  It  was  a  yellow  mask, 
which  might  have  belonged  to  a  dead  as  well  as  a 
living  creature,  behind  which  the  lights  of  hope  and 
shadows  of  despair  were  vying  with  each  other  for 
supremacy.  In  no  thing  pertaining  to  the  situation 
did  the  pathos  so  piteously  lie  as  in  the  fact  that 
Linda  was  deliberately  playing  a  part  —  fiercely 
acting  a  role  that  would  fit  itself  to  that  for  which 
the  agony  of  her  soul  was  pleading.  She  was  trying 
to  smile  away  the  shadows  her  inward  fears,  her 
racial  intuition  were  casting  on  her  face. 

"Mighty  early  fer  you  ter  come,  honey,"  she  said; 
"but  I  reckon  you  is  worried  'bout  yo'  ol'  mammy." 

"Yes,  it's  early  for  me  to  be  up,"  Helen  said, 
avoiding  the  wavering  glance  that  seemed  in  reality 
to  be  avoiding  the  revelation  of  hers.  "  But  I  saw 
Uncle  Lewis  and  thought  I'd  come  back  with  him." 

"You  hain't  had  yo'  breakfast  yit,  honey,  I 
know,"  said  Linda,  reaching  for  a  chair  half-hearted- 
ly and  placing  it  for  her  young  mistress,  and  then 
her  eyes  fell  on  her  husband's  bareheaded,  bowed 
attitude  as  he  stood  at  the  gate,  and  something  in 
it,  through  her  sense  of  sight,  gave  her  a  deadening 
blow.  For  an  instant  she  almost  reeled;  she  drew 

227 


Mam'    Linda 

a  deep  breath,  a  breath  that  swelled  out  her  great, 
motherly  bosom,  then  with  her  hands  hanging  limply 
at  her  side,  she  stood  in  front  of  Helen.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  did  not  speak,  and  then,  with  her  face  on 
fire,  her  great,  somnolent  eyes  ablaze,  she  suddenly 
bent  down  and  put  her  hands  on  Helen's  knees  and 
said: 

"Looky  here,  honey,  I've  been  afraid  of  it  all 
night  long,  an'  I've  fit  it  off  an'  fit  it  off,  an'  I  got  up 
dis  mawnin'  fightin'  it  off,  but  ef  you  come  here  so 
early  'ca'se — ef  you  come  here  ter  tell  me  dat  my 
child — ef  you  come  here — ef  you  come  here — gre't 
God  on  high,  it  ain't  so!  it  cayn't  be  dat  way!  Look 
me  in  de  eyes,  honey,  I'm  raidy  en  waitin'  fer  you 
ter  give  it  de  lie." 

For  one  moment  she  glared  at  Helen  as  the  girl  sat 
white  and  quivering,  her  glance  on  the  floor,  and  then 
she  uttered  a  piercing  scream  like  that  of  a  frightened 
beast,  and  grasping  the  hand  of  her  husband,  who 
was  now  by  her  side,  she  pointed  a  finger  of  stone 
at  Helen.  "Look!  Look,  Lewis;  my  Gawd,  she 
ain't  lookin'  at  me!  Look  at  me,  honey  chile; 
look  at  me!  D'  you  hear  me  say—  She  stood 
firmly  for  an  instant  and  then  she  reeled  into  her 
husband's  arms. 

"  She  daid ;  whut  I  tol  you  ?  Missy,  yo'  ol'  mammy 
daid,"  and  lifting  his  wife  in  his  arms  he  bore  her  to 
the  bed  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  "Yes,  she  done 
daid,"  he  groaned,  as  he  straightened  up. 

"No,  she's  only  fainted,"  said  Helen;  "bring  me 
the  camphor,  quick!" 


XXVIII 

JHAT  morning  at  the  usual  hour  the 
store-keepers  opened  their  dingy  houses 
in  the  main  street  and  placed  along 
the  narrow  brick  sidewalks  the  dusty, 
stock- worn  samples  of  their  wares.  The 
clerks  and  porters  as  they  swept  the  floors  would 
pause  to  discuss  the  happening  of  the  night  just  gone. 
Old  Uncle  Lewis  and  Mammy  Linda  Warren's  boy 
had  been  summarily  dealt  with,  that  was  all.  The 
longer  word  just  used  had  of  late  years  become  a 
part  of  the  narrowest  vocabulary,  suggesting  to 
crude  minds  many  meanings  not  thought  of  by 
lexicographers,  not  the  least  of  which  was  some- 
thing pertaining  to  justice  far-reaching,  grim,  and 
unfailing  in  these  days  of  bribery  and  graft.  Only  a 
few  of  the  more  analytical  and  philosophical  vent- 
ured to  ask  themselves  if,  after  all,  the  boy  might 
have  been  innocent.  If  they  put  the  question  to  the 
average  citizen  it  was  tossed  off  with  a  shrug  and  a 
"Well,  what's  the  difference?  It's  such  talk  as  he 
was  guilty  of  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  black 
crimes  throughout  the  South."  Such  venom  as 
Pete's  was  the  very  muscle  of  the  black  claws  that 
were  everywhere  reaching  out  for  helpless  white 
throats.  Dead?  Yes,  he  was  dead.  What  of  it? 
Plow  else  was  the  black,  constantly  increasing  tor- 
rent to  be  dammed? 

229 


Mam'    Linda 

And  yet  by  ten  o'clock  that  morning  even  these 
tongues  were  silenced,  for  news  strange  and  startling 
began  to  steal  in  from  the  mountains.  The  party 
who  had  been  in  pursuit  of  the  desperado  Sam 
Dudlow  had  overtaken  him — found  him  hiding  in  a 
barn,  covered  with  hay.  He  was  unarmed  and  made 
no  resistance,  laughing  as  if  the  whole  thing  were  a 
joke.  He  frankly  told  them  that  he  would  have 
given  himself  up  earlier,  but  he  had  hoped  to  live 
long  enough  to  get  even  with  the  other  leader  of  the 
mob  that  had  whipped  him  at  Darley,  a  certain  Dan 
Willis.  He  confessed  in  detail  exactly  how  he  had 
murdered  the  Johnsons  and  that  he  had  done  it  alone. 
Pete  Warren  was  in  no  way  implicated  in  it.  The 
lynchers,  to  get  the  whole  truth,  threatened  him; 
they  tortured  him ;  they  tied  him  to  a  tree  and  piled 
pine  fagots  about  him,  but  he  still  stuck  to  his  state- 
ment, and  when  they  had  mercifully  riddled  him 
with  bullets,  just  as  his  clothing  was  igniting,  they 
left  him  hanging  by  the  road-side,  a  grewsome  scare- 
crow as  a  warning  to  his  kind,  and,  led  by  Jabe 
Parsons,  they  made  all  haste  to  reach  the  faction  on 
Pete  Warren's  track  to  tell  them  that  the  boy  was 
innocent. 

Jabe  Parsons,  carrying  a  load  on  his  mind,  re- 
membering his  wife's  valiant  stand  in  behalf  of  the 
younger  accused,  rode  faster  than  his  tired  fellows, 
and  near  his  own  farm  met  the  lynchers  returning 
from  Darley.  "Too  late,"  they  told  him,  in  re- 
sponse to  his  news,  the  Hillbend  boys  had  done 
away  with  the  Darley  jailbird  and  mysteriously  hid- 
den the  body  to  inspire  fear  among  the  negroes. 

At  Darley  consternation  swept  the  place  as  story 
230 


Mam'   Linda 

after  story  of  Aunt  Linda's  prostration  passed  from 
house  to  house.  "Poor,  faithful  old  woman!  Poor 
old  Uncle  Lewis!"  was  heard  on  every  side. 

About  half -past  ten  o'clock  Helen,  accompanied 
by  Sanders,  came  down-town.  At  the  door  of  Car- 
son's office  they  parted  and  Helen  came  in.  Carson 
happened  to  be  alone.  He  rose  suddenly  from  his 
seat  and  came  towards  her,  shocked  by  the  sight  of 
her  wan  face  and  dejected  mien. 

"Why,  Helen!"  he  cried,  "surely  you  don't 
think — "  and  then  he  checked  himself  as  he  hastened 
to  get  a  chair  for  her. 

"I've  just  left  mammy,"  she  began,  in  a  voice 
that  was  husky  with  emotion.  "Oh,  Carson,  you 
can't  imagine  it!  It  is  simply  heart-rending,  awful! 
She  is  lying  there  at  death's  door  staring  up  at  the 
ceiling,  simply  benumbed." 

Carson  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  leaned  his  head 
on  his  hand.  Could  he  keep  back  the  truth  under 
such  pressure?  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Gar- 
ner came  in.  Casting  a  hurried  glance  at  the  two, 
and  seeing  Helen's  grief-stricken  attitude,  he  simply 
bowed. 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  Helen,  just  a  moment,"  he 
said.  "Carson,  I  left  a  paper  in  your  pigeon-hole," 
and  as  he  bent  and  extracted  a  blank  envelope  from 
the  desk  he  whispered,  warningly:  "Remember, 
not  one  word  of  this!  Don't  forget  the  agreement! 
Not  a  soul  is  to  know!"  And  putting  the  envelope 
into  his  pocket  he  went  out  of  the  room,  casting 
back  from  the  threshold  a  warning,  almost  threat- 
ening glance. 

"  I've  been  with  her  since  sunup,"  Helen  went  on. 
16  231 


Mam'    Linda 

"She  fainted  at  first,  and  when  she  came  to — oh, 
Carson,  you  love  her  as  I  do,  and  it  would  have 
broken  your  heart  to  have  heard  her!  Oh,  such 
pitiful  wailing  and  begging  God  to  put  her  out  of 
pain!" 

"Awful,  awful!"  Dwight  said;  "but,  Helen—" 
Again  he  checked  himself.  Before  his  mind's  eye 
rose  the  faces  of  the  faithful  group  who  had  stood 
by  him  the  night  before.  He  had  pledged  himself 
to  them  to  keep  the  thing  secret,  and  no  matter  what 
his  own  faith  in  Helen's  discretion  was  he  had  no 
right,  even  under  stress  of  her  grief,  to  betray  what 
had  occurred.  No,  he  couldn't  enlighten  her — not 
just  then,  at  all  events. 

' '  I  was  there  when  Uncle  Lewis  came  in  to  tell  her 
that  proof  had  come  of  Pete's  absolute  innocence," 
Helen  went  on,  "but  instead  of  comforting  her  it 
seemed  to  drive  her  the  more  frantic.  She — but  I 
simply  can't  describe  it,  and  I  won't  try.  You  will 
be  glad  to  know,  Carson,  that  the  only  thing  in  the 
shape  of  comfort  she  has  had  was  your  brave  efforts 
in  her  behalf.  Over  and  over  she  called  your  name. 
Carson,  she  used  to  pray  to  God ;  she  never  mentions 
Him  now.  You,  and  you  alone,  represent  all  that 
is  good  and  self-sacrificing  to  her.  She  sent  me  to 
you.  That's  why  I  am  here." 

"She  sent  you?"  Carson  was  avoiding  her  eyes, 
fearful  that  she  might  read  in  his  own  a  hint  of  the 
burning  thing  he  was  trying  to  withhold. 

"Yes,  you  see  the  report  has  reached  her  about 
what  the  lynchers  said  in  regard  to  hiding  Pete's 
body.  You  know  how  superstitious  the  negroes 
are,  and  she  is  simply  crazy  to  recover  the — the 

232 


Mam'    Linda 

remains.  She  wants  to  bury  her  boy,  Carson,  and 
she  refuses  to  believe  that  some  one  can't  find  him 
and  bring  him  home.  She  seems  to  think  you  can." 

"  She  wants  me  to — "     He  went  no  further. 

"If  it  is  possible,  Carson.  The  whole  thing  is  so 
awful  that  it  has  driven  me  nearly  wild.  You  will 
know,  perhaps,  if  anything  can  be  done,  but,  of 
course,  if  it  is  wholly  out  of  the  question — ' 

" Helen" — in  his  desperation  he  had  formulated  a 
plan — "there  is  something  that  you  ought  to  know. 
You  have  every  right  to  know  it,  and  yet  I'm  bound 
in  honor  not  to  let  it  out  to  any  one.  Last  night," 
he  went  on,  modestly,  "in  the  hope  of  formulating 
some  plan  to  avert  the  coming  trouble,  I  asked  Keith 
to  get  a  number  of  my  best  friends  together.  We  met 
at  Blackburn's  store.  No  positive,  sworn  vows  were 
made.  It  was  only  the  sacred  understanding  be- 
tween men  that  the  matter  was  to  be  held  inviolate, 
owing  to  the  personal  interests  of  every  man  who 
had  committed  himself.  You  see,  they  came  at  my 
suggestion,  as  friends  of  mine  true  and  loyal,  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  I'd  have  a  moral  right,  even 
now,  to  take  another  into  the  body — another  whom 
I  trust  as  thoroughly  and  wholly  as  any  one  of 
them.  Do  you  understand,  Helen?" 

"No,  I'm  in  the  dark,  Carson,"  she  said,  with  a 
feeble  smile. 

"You  see,  I  want  to  speak  freely  to  you,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  I  want  to  tell  you  some  things  you  ought 
to  know,  and  yet  I  am  not  free  to  do  so  unless — unless 
you  will  tacitly  join  us.  Helen,  do  you  understand  ? 
Are  you  willing  to  become  one  of  us  so  far  as  absolute 
secrecy  is  concerned  ?" 

233 


Mam'    Linda 

"I  am  willing  to  do  anything  you'd  advise,  Carson," 
the  girl  replied,  groping  for  his  possible  meaning 
through  the  cloud  of  mystery  his  queer  words  had 
thrown  around  him.  "  If  something  took  place  that 
I  ought  to  know,  and  you  are  willing  to  confide  it 
to  me,  I  assure  you  I  can  be  trusted.  I'd  die  rather 
than  betray  it." 

"Then,  as  one  of  us,  I'll  tell  you,"  Carson  said, 
impressively.  "Helen,  Pete,  is  not  dead." 

"Not  dead?"  She  stared  at  him  incredulously 
from  her  great,  beautiful  eyes.  Slowly  her  white 
hand  went  out  till  it  rested  on  his,  and  remained 
there,  quivering. 

"No,  he's  alive  and  so  far  in  safe  keeping,  free  from 
harm  at  present,  anyway." 

Her  fingers  tightened  on  his  hand,  her  sweet, 
appealing  face  drew  nearer  to  his;  she  took  a  deep 
breath.  "Oh,  Carson,  don't  say  that  unless  you  are 
quite  sure." 

"I  am  absolutely  sure,"  he  said ;  and  then,  as  they 
sat,  her  hand  still  lingering  unconsciously  on  his,  he 
explained  it  all,  leaving  the  part  he  had  taken  out 
of  the  recital  as  much  as  possible,  and  giving  the 
chief  credit  to  his  supporters.  She  sat  spellbound, 
her  sympathetic  soul  melting  and  flowing  into  the 
warm  current  of  his  own  while  he  talked  as  it  seemed 
to  her  no  human  being  had  ever  talked  before. 

When  he  had  concluded  she  drew  away  her  hand 
and  sat  erect,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  eyes  glistening. 

"Oh,  Carson,"  she  cried;  "I  never  was  so  happy 
in  my  life!  It  actually  pains  me."  She  pressed  her 
hand  to  her  breast.  ' '  Mammy  will  be  so — but  you 
say  she  must  not — must  not  yet— 

234 


Mam'   Linda 

''That's  the  trouble,"  Dwight  said,  regretfully. 
"I'm  sure  I  could  put  her  and  Lewis  on  their  guard 
so  that  they  would  act  with  discretion,  but  Black- 
burn and  Garner — in  fact,  all  the  rest — are  afraid  to 
risk  them,  just  now  anyway.  You  see,  they  think 
Linda  and  Lewis  might  betray  it  in  their  emotions — 
their  very  happiness  —  and  so  undo  everything  we 
have  accomplished." 

"Surely,  now  that  the  report  of  Sam  Dudlow's 
confession  has  gone  out,  they  would  let  Pete  alone," 
Helen  said. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  risk  it  quite  yet,"  said  Dwight. 
"Right  now,  while  they  are  under  the  impression 
that  an  innocent  negro  has  been  lynched,  they  seem 
inclined  to  quiet  down,  but  once  let  the  news  go  out 
that  a  few  town  men,  through  trickery,  had  freed 
the  prisoner,  and  they  would  rise  more  furious  than 
ever.  No,  we  must  be  careful.  And,  Helen,  you 
must  remember  your  promise.  Don't  let  even  your 
sympathy  for  Linda  draw  it  out  of  you." 

"I  can  keep  it,  and  I  really  shall,"  Helen  said. 
"  But  you  must  release  me  as  soon  as  you  possibly 
can." 

"I'll  do  that,"  he  promised,  as  she  rose  to  go. 

"I'll  keep  it,"  she  repeated,  when  she  had  reached 
the  door;  "but  to  do  so  I'll  have  to  stay  away  from 
mammy.  The  sight  of  her  agony  would  wring  it 
from  me." 

"Then  don't  go  near  her  till  I  see  you,"  Dwight 
cautioned  her.  "I'll  meet  all  the  others  to-day  and 
put  the  matter  before  them.  Perhaps  they  may 
give  in  on  that  point." 


XXIX 

the  corner  of  the  street  Helen  en- 
countered Sanders,  who  was  waiting 
for  her.  At  the  sight  of  him  standing 
on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  impatiently 
[tapping  the  toe  of  his  neatly  shod  foot 
with  the  ferrule  of  his  tightly  rolled  silk  umbrella, 
she  experienced  a  shock  which  would  have  eluded 
analysis.  He  had  been  so  completely  out  of  her 
thoughts,  and  her  present  mood  was  of  such  an  en- 
trancing nature  that  she  felt  a  desire  to  indulge  it 
undisturbed.  The  bare  thought  of  the  platitudes 
she  would  have  to  exchange  with  any  one  ignorant 
of  her  dazzling  discovery  was  unpleasant.  After  all, 
what  was  it  about  Sanders  that  vaguely  incited  her 
growing  disapproval?  This  morning  could  it  pos- 
sibly be  his  very  faultlessness  of  attire,  his  spick-and- 
span  air  of  ownership  in  her  body  and  soul  because  of 
their  undefined  understanding  as  to  his  suit,  or  was 
it  because — because  he  had,  although  through  no 
fault  of  his  own,  taken  no  part  in  the  thing  which  to- 
day, for  Helen,  somehow,  held  more  weight  than  all 
other  earthly  happenings?  Indeed,  fate  was  not 
using  the  Darley  visitor  kindly.  He  was  unwit- 
tingly like  a  healthy  soldier  on  a  furlough  making 
himself  useful  in  the  drawing-room  while  news  of 
victory  was  pouring  in  from  his  comrades  at  the  front. 

236 


Mam'    Linda 

"You  see  I  waited  for  you,"  he  said,  gracefully 
raising  his  hat;  "but,  Helen,  what  has  happened? 
Why,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  she  said;  "nothing  at  all." 

"But,"  he  went  on,  frowning  in  perplexity  as  he 
suited  his  step  to  hers,  "  I  never  saw  any  one  in 
my  life  change  so  suddenly.  Why,  when  you  went 
into  that  office  you  were  simply  a  picture  of  despair, 
but  now  you  look  as  if  you  were  bursting  with  hap- 
piness. Your  face  is  flushed,  your  eyes  are  fairly 
dancing.  Helen,  if  I  thought — 

He  paused,  his  own  color  rising,  a  deeper  frown 
darkening  his  brow. 

"If  you  thought  what?"  she  asked,  with  a  little 
irritation. 

"  Oh  " — he  knocked  a  stone  out  of  his  way  with  his 
umbrella — "what's  the  use  denying  it!  I'm  simply 
jealous.  I'm  only  a  natural  human  being,  and  I 
suppose  I'm  jealous." 

"  You  have  no  cause  to  be,"  she  said,  and  then  she 
bit  her  lip  with  vexation  at  the  slip  of  the  tongue. 
Why  should  she  defend  herself  to  him?  She  had 
never  said  she  loved  him.  She  had  not  yet  consented 
to  marry  him.  Besides,  she  was  in  no  mood  to 
gratify  his  vanity.  She  wanted  simply  to  be  alone 
with  the  boundless  delight  she  was  allowed  to  share 
with  no  one  but — Carson — Carson! — the  one  who 
had,  for  her  sake,  made  the  sharing  of  it  possible. 

"Well,  I  am  uneasy,  and  I  can't  help  it,"  Sanders 
went  on,  gloomily.  "How  can  I  help  it?  You  left 
me  so  sad  and  depressed  that  you  had  hardly  a  word 
for  me,  and  after  seeing  this  Mr.  D wight  you  come 
out  looking  —  do  you  know,"  he  broke  off,  "that 

237 


Mam'   Linda 

you  were  there  alone  with   that  fellow  nearly  an 
hour?" 

"Oh  no,  it  couldn't  have  been  so  long,"  she  said, 
further  irritated  by  his  open  defence  of  what  he 
erroneously  considered  his  rights. 

"But  it  was,  for  I  timed  you,"  Sanders  affirmed. 
"Heaven  knows  I  counted  the  actual  minutes.  There 
is  a  lot  about  this  whole  thing  I  don't  like,  but  I 
hardly  know  what  it  is." 

"You  are  not  only  jealous  but  suspicious,"  Helen 
said,  sharply.  "Those  are  things  I  don't  like  in  any 
man." 

"  I've  offended  you,  but  I  didn't  mean  to,"  Sanders 
said,  with  a  sudden  turn  towards  precaution.  "  You'll 
forgive  me,  won't  you,  Helen?" 

"Oh  yes,  it's  all  right."  She  had  suddenly  soft- 
ened. "Really,  I  am  sorry  you  feel  hurt.  Don't 
think  any  more  about  it.  I  have  a  reason  which  I 
can't  explain  for  feeling  rather  cheerful  just  now." 
They  had  reached  the  next  street  corner  and  she 
paused.  "  I  want  to  go  by  Cousin  Ida's.  She  lives 
down  this  way." 

"And  you'd  rather  I  didn't  go  along?" 

"  I  have  something  particular  to  say  to  her." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Then  may  I  come  as  usual  this 
afternoon?" 

Her  wavering,  half -repentant  glance  fell.  "  Not 
this  afternoon,"  she  said.  "I  ought  to  be  with 
mammy.  Couldn't  you  call  this  evening?" 

"  It  will  seem  a  long  time  to  wait  in  this  dreary 
place,  with  nothing  to  occupy  me,"  he  said;  "but 
I  shall  be  well  repaid.  So  I  may  come  this  even- 
ing?" 

238 


Mam'    Linda 

"Oh  yes,  I  shall  expect  you  then,"  and  Helen 
turned  and  left  him. 

In  the  front  garden  of  the  Tarpley  house  she 
found  her  cousin  watering  the  flowers.  Observing 
Helen  at  the  gate,  Miss  Tarpley  hastily  put  down  the 
tin  sprinkling-pot  and  hurried  to  her. 

"I  was  just  going  up  to  see  mammy,"  Ida  said. 
"  I  know  I  can  be  of  no  use  and  yet  I  wanted  to  try. 
Oh,  the  poor  thing  must  be  suffering  terribly!  She 
had  enough  to  bear  as  it  was,  but  that  last  night — 
oh!" 

"Yes — yes,"  Helen  said.     "It  is  hard  on  her." 

Ida  Tarpley  rested  her  two  hands  on  the  tops  of 
the  white  palings  of  the  fence  and  stared  inquiringly 
into  Helen's  face. 

"Why  do  you  say  it  in  that  tone?"  she  asked; 
"and  with  that  queer,  almost  smiling  look  in  your 
eyes  ?  Why,  I  expected  to  see  you  prostrated,  and— 
well,  I  don't  think — I  actually  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  you  looking  better  in  my  life.  What's  hap- 
pened, Helen?" 

"Oh,  nothing."  Helen  was  now  making  a  strong 
effort  to  disguise  her  feelings,  and  she  succeeded  to 
some  extent,  for  Miss  Tarpley 's  thoughts  took  an- 
other trend. 

"And  poor, -dear  Carson,"  she  said,  sympathet- 
ically. "The  news  must  have  nearly  killed  him. 
He  came  by  here  last  night  making  all  haste  to  get 
down-town,  as  he  said,  to  see  if  something  couldn't 
be  done.  He  was  terribly  wrought  up,  and  I  never 
saw  such  a  look  of  determination  on  a  human  face. 
'  Something  has  to  be  done,'  he  said ; '  something  must 
be  done !  The  boy  is  innocent  and  shall  not  die  like 

239 


Mam'    Linda 

a  dog.  It  would  kill  his  mother,  and  she  is  a  good, 
faithful  old  woman.  No,  he  shall  not  die!'  And 
with  those  words  he  hurried  on.  Oh,  Helen,  that 
is  sad,  too.  It  is  sad  to  see  as  noble  a  young  spirit 
as  he  has  fail  in  such  a  laudable  undertaking.  Think 
of  how  he  stood  up  before  that  surging  mob  and  let 
them  shoot  at  him  while  he  shouted  defiance  in  their 
teeth,  till  they  cowered  down  and  slunk  away! 
Think  of  a  triumph  like  that,  and  then,  after  all,  to 
meet  with  such  galling  defeat  as  overtook  him  last 
night!  When  I  heard  of  the  lynching  I  actually 
cried.  I  think  I  felt  for  him  as  much  as  I  did  for 
Mam'  Linda.  Poor,  dear  boy!  You  know  why  he 
wanted  to  do  it  so  much — you  know  that  as  well  as 
I  do." 

"Why  he  wanted  to  do  it!"  Helen  echoed,  almost 
hungry  for  the  sweet  confirmation  of  D wight's  fidel- 
ity to  her  cause. 

"  Yes,  you  know — you  know  that  his  whole  young 
soul  was  set  on  it  because  it  was  your  wish,  because 
you  were  so  troubled  over  it.  I've  seen  that  in  his 
eyes  ever  since  the  matter  came  up.  I  saw  it  there 
last  night,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  his  very  heart 
was  burning  up  within  him.  Oh,  I  get  mad  at  you 
— to  think  you'd  let  that  Augusta  man,  even  if  you 
do  intend  some  day  to  marry  him — that  you'd  let 
him  be  here  at  such  a  time,  as  if  Carson  hadn't 
enough  to  bear  without  that.  Ah,  Helen,  no  other 
human  being  will  ever  love  you  as  Carson  Dwight 
does — never,  never  while  the  sun  shines." 

With  a  misleading  smile  of  denial  on  her  face 
Helen  turned  homeward.  He  loved  her  —  Carson 
Dwight — that  man  of  all  men — still  loved  her.  Her 

240 


Mam'    Linda 

body  felt  imponderable  as  she  strode  blithely  on 
her  way.  In  her  hands  she  carried  a  human  life — 
the  life  of  the  poor  boy  Carson  had  so  wonderfully 
struggled  for  and  intrusted  to  her  keeping.  To  his 
mother  and  father  Pete  was  dead,  but  to  her  and 
Carson,  her  first  sweetheart,  he  still  lived.  The 
secret  was  theirs  to  hold  between  their  throbbing 
hearts.  Old  Linda's  grief  was  but  a  dream.  Helen 
and  Carson  could  draw  aside  the  black  curtain  and 
tell  her  to  look  and  see  the  truth. 

Standing  with  bowed  head  at  the  front  gate  when 
she  arrived  home,  she  saw  old  Uncle  Lewis,  his  bald 
pate  bared  to  the  sunshine. 

"Mam'  Lindy  axin'  'bout  you,  missy,"  he  said, 
pitifully.  "She  say  you  went  down -town  ter  see 
Marse  Carson,  en  she  seem  mighty  nigh  crazy  ter 
know  ef  you  found  whar  de — de  body  er  de  po'  boy 
is  at.  Dat  all  she's  beggin'  en  pleadin'  fer  now, 
missy,  en  ef  dem  white  mens  refuse  it,  de  Lawd  only 
know  what  she  gwine  ter  do." 

Helen  gazed  at  him  helplessly.  Her  whole  young 
being  was  wrung  with  the  desire  to  let  him  know 
the  truth,  and  yet  how  could  she  tell  him  what  had 
been  revealed  to  her  in  such  strict  confidence  ? 

"I'll  go  see  mammy  nowr,"  she  said.  "I've  no 
news  yet,  Uncle  Lewis — no  news  that  I  can  give 
you.  I'm  looking  for  Carson  to  come  up  soon." 

As  she  neared  the  cottage  the  motley  group  of 
negroes,  serious-faced  men  and  women,  bland-eyed 
persons  in  their  teens,  and  half -clad  children,  around 
the  door  intuitively  and  respectfully  drew  aside  and 
she  entered  the  cottage  unaccompanied  and  un- 
announced. Linda  was  not  in  the  sitting-room, 

241 


Mam'    Linda 

where  she  expected  to  find  her,  and  so,  wonderingly, 
Helen  turned  into  the  kitchen  adjoining.  Here  the 
general  aspect  of  things  added  to  her  growing  sur- 
prise, for  the  old  woman  had  drawn  close  the  cur- 
tains of  the  little,  small-paned  windows,  and  before  a 
small  fire  in  the  chimney  she  sat  prone  on  the  ash- 
covered  hearth.  That  alone  might  not  have  been  so 
surprising,  but  Linda  had  covered  her  body  with 
several  old  tow  sacks  upon  which  she  had  plentifully 
sprinkled  ashes.  The  grayish  powder  was  in  her 
short  hair,  on  her  face  and  bare  arms,  and  filled  her 
lap.  There  was  one  thing  in  the  world  that  the  old 
woman  prized  above  all  else — a  big,  leather-bound 
family  Bible  which  she  had  owned  since  she  first 
learned  to  read  under  the  instruction  of  Helen's 
mother,  and  this,  also  ash-covered,  lay  open  by  her 
side. 

"Is  I  gwine  ter  bury  my  chile?"  she  demanded, 
as  she  glared  up  at  her  mistress.  "What  young 
marster  say?  Is  I,  or  is  I  never  ter  lay  eyes  on 
'im  ergin?  Is  I  de  only  nigger  mother  dat  ever 
lived  on  dis  yeth,  bound  er  free,  dat  cayn't  have 
dat  much?  Tell  me.  Ef  dey  gwine  ter  le'  me  see 
'im  Marse  Carson  ud  know  it.  What  he  say?" 

Rendered  fairly  speechless  by  the  predicament 
she  was  in,  Helen  could  only  stand  staring  helplessly. 
Presently,  however,  she  bent,  and  lifting  the  Bible 
from  the  floor  she  laid  it  on  the  table.  With  her 
massive  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  fat  hands  over  her 
face  and  almost  touching  the  flames,  Linda  rocked 
back  and  forth. 

"  Dey  ain't  no  God !"  she  cried ;  "  ef  dey  is  one  He's 
es  black  es  de  back  er  dat  chimbley.  Dat  book  is  er 

242 


Mam'    Linda 

lie.  Dey  ain't  no  love  en  mercy  anywhars  dis  side 
de  blinkin',  grinnin'  stars.  Don't  tell  me  er  nigger's 
prayers  is  answered.  Didn't  I  pray  las'  night  till 
my  tongue  was  swelled  in  my  mouf  fer  um  ter  spare 
my  boy  ?  En  what  in  de  name  er  all  created  was  de 
answer?  When  de  day  broke  wid  de  same  sun 
shinin'  dat  was  shinin'  when  he  laid  de  fus  time  on 
my  breas',  de  news  was  fetch  me  dat  my  baby  chile 
was  dragged  out  wid  er  rope  rounst  his  neck,  prayin' 
ter  men  whilst  I  was  prayin'  ter  God.  Look  lak  dat 
enough,  hein  ?  But  no,  nex'  come  de  news  dat  ef  he'd 
er  lived  one  short  hour  longer  dey  might  er  let  'im 
go  'ca'se  dey  foun'  de  right  one.  Look  lak  dat 
enough,  too,  hein?  But  nex'  come  de  word,  en  de 
las'  message :  innocent  or  no,  right  one  or  wrong  one, 
my  chile  wasn't  goin'  ter  have  a  common  buryin'- 
place — not  even  in  de  Potter's  Fiel'  dis  book  tell 
erbout  so  big.  Don't  talk  ter  me!  Ef  prayers  fum 
niggers  is  answered  mine  was  heard  in  hell,  en  old 
Scratch  en  all  his  imps  er  darkness  was  managin'  it. 
Don't  come  near  me!  I  might  lay  han's  on  you.  I 
ain't  myself.  I  heard  er  low  trash  white  man  say 
once  dat  niggers  was  des  baboons.  I  may  be  one,  en 
er  wild  one  fer  all  I  know — oh,  honey,  don't  pay  no 
'tention  ter  me.  Yo'  ol'  mammy  is  bein'  burnt  at  de 
stake  en  she  ain't  'sponsible.  She  love  you,  honey 
—she  love  you  even  in  'er  gre't  trouble." 

"I  understand,  mammy,"  and  Helen  put  her 
arms  around  the  old  woman's  neck.  An  almost 
overpowering  impulse  had  risen  in  her  to  tell  the 
old  sufferer  the  truth,  but  thinking  that  some  of 
the  negroes  might  be  listening,  and  remembering  her 
promise,  she  restrained  herself. 

243 


Mam'    Linda 

"I'm  going  to  write  a  note  to  Carson  to  come  up 
at  once,"  she  said.  "He'll  have  something  to  tell 
you,  mammy." 

And  passing  the  negroes  about  the  door  she  went 
to  the  house,  and  hastening  into  the  library  she  wrote 
and  forwarded  by  a  servant  the  following  note: 

"  DEAR  CARSON, — Come  at  once,  and  come  prepared  to 
tell  her.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  Do,  do  come. 

"  HELEN." 


XXX 

an  hour  later  Helen,  waiting  at  the 
front  gate,  saw  a  horse  and  buggy  turn 
corner  down  the  street.     She  rec- 
iognized  it  as  belonging  to  Keith  Gor- 
don.     Indeed,  Keith  was  driving,  and 
with  him  was  Carson  Dwight. 

Helen's  heart  bounded,  a  vast  weight  of  incal- 
culable responsibility  seemed  to  lift  itself  from  her. 
She  unlatched  the  gate  and  swung  it  open. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you'd  never  come!"  she  smiled,  as 
he  sprang  out  and  advanced  to  her.  "  I  would  have 
broken  my  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  clan  if  you  had 
waited  a  moment  longer." 

"I  might  have  known  you  couldn't  keep  it," 
Dwight  laughed.  "Mam'  Linda  would  have  drawn 
it  out  of  you  just  as  you  did  out  of  me." 

"  But  are  you  going  to  tell  her?"  Helen  asked,  just 
as  Keith,  who  had  stepped  aside  to  fasten  his  horse, 
came  up. 

"Yes,"  Carson  answered.     "Keith  and  I  made  a 
lightning  trip  around  and  finally  persuaded  all  the 
others.     Invariably  they  would  shake  their  heads, 
and  then  we'd  simply  tell  them  you  wished  it,  and    / 
that  settled  it.     They  all  seem  flattered  by  the  idea   , 
that  you  are  a  member." 

"But  say,  Miss   Helen,"  Keith  put  in,  gravely, 
245 


Mam'    Linda 

"we  really  must  guard  against  Lewis  and  Linda's 
giving  it  away.  It  is  a  most  serious  business, 
and,  our  own  interests  aside,  the  boy's  life  depends 
on  it." 

"Well,  we  must  get  them  away  from  the  cottage," 
said  Helen.  "They  are  now  literally  surrounded  by 
curious  negroes." 

"Can't  we  have  them  up  here  in  the  parlor?" 
Carson  asked.  "  Your  father  is  down-town;  we  saw 
him  as  we  came  up." 

"Yes,  that's  a  good  idea,"  Helen  responded,  eager- 
ly. "  The  servants  are  all  at  the  cottage ;  we'll  make 
them  stay  there  and  have  Uncle  Lewis  and  Mam' 
Linda  here." 

"Suppose  I  run  down  and  give  the  message," 
proposed  Keith,  and  he  was  off  with  the  speed  of  a 
ball-player  on  a  home-run. 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  any  real  danger  to  Mam' 
Linda's  health  in  letting  her  know  it  suddenly?" 
Carson  asked,  thoughtfully. 

"We  must  try  to  reveal  it  gradually,"  Helen 
said,  after  reflecting  for  a  moment.  "There's  no 
telling.  They  say  great  joy  often  kills  as  quickly  as 
great  sorrow.  Oh,  Carson,  isn't  it  glorious  to  be 
able  to  do  this?  Don't  you  feel  happy  in  the  con- 
t  ,  sciousness  that  it  was  your  great,  sympathetic  heart 
that  inspired  this  miracle,  your  wonderful  brain  and 
energy  and  courage  that  actually  put  it  through?" 

"Not  through  yet,"  he  laughed,  depreciatingly,  as 
his  blood  flowed  hotly  into  his  cheeks.  "  It  would 
be  just  my  luck  right  now  to  have  this  thing  turn 
smack  dab  against  us.  We  are  not  out  of  the  woods 
yet,  Helen,  by  long  odds.  The  rage  of  that  mob 

246 


Mam'    Linda 

is  only  sleeping,  and  I  have  enemies,  political  and 
otherwise,  who  would  stir  it  to  white  heat  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  if  they  once  got  an  inkling  of  the 
truth."  He  snapped  his  fingers.  "I  wouldn't  give 
that  for  Pete's  life  if  they  discover  our  trick.  Pole 
Baker  had  just  come  in  town  when  Keith  and  I  left. 
He  said  the  Hillbend  people  were  earnestly  denying 
all  knowledge  of  any  lynching  or  of  the  whereabouts 
of  Pete's  body,  and  that  some  people  were  already 
asking  queer  questions.  So,  you  see,  if  on  top  of 
that  growing  suspicion,  old  Lewis  and  Linda  begin 
to  dance  a  hoe-down  of  joy  instead  of  weeping  and 
wailing — well,  you  see,  that's  the  way  it  stands." 

"  Oh,  then,  perhaps  we'd  better  not  tell  them,  after 
all,"  Helen  said,  crestfallen.  "They  are  suffering 
awfully,  but  they  would  rather  bear  it  for  awhile 
than  to  be  the  cause  of  Pete's  death." 

"No,"  Carson  smiled;  "from  the  way  you  wrote, 
I  know  you  have  had  about  as  much  as  you  can 
stand,  and  we  simply  must  try  to  make  them  com- 
prehend the  full  gravity  of  the  matter." 

At  this  juncture  Keith  came  up  panting  from  his 
run  and  joined  them.  "Great  Heavens!"  he  cried, 
lifting  his  hands,  the  palms  outward.  "  I  never  saw 
such  a  sight.  I  can  stand  some  things,  but  I'm  not 
equal  to  torture  of  that  kind." 

"Are  they  coming?"  Carson  asked. 

"Yes,  there's  Lewis  now.  Of  course,  I  couldn't 
give  them  a  hint  of  the  truth  down  there  in  that 
swarm  of  negroes,  and  so  my  message  that  you 
wanted  to  see  them  here  only  seemed  to  key  them  up 
higher." 

Carson  turned  to  Lewis,  who,  hat  in  hand,  his  black 

'?  247 


Mam'    Linda 

face  set  in  stony  rigidity,  had  paused  near  by  and 
stood  waiting  respectfully  to  be  spoken  to. 

"Uncle  Lewis,"  he  said,  "we've  got  good  news  for 
you  and  Linda,  but  a  great  deal  depends  on  its 
being  kept  secret.  I  must  exact  a  sacred  promise 
of  you  not  to  betray  to  a  living  soul  by  word  of 
mouth  or  act  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  Will  you 
promise,  Lewis?" 

The  old  man  leaned  totteringly  forward  till  his 
gaunt  fingers  closed  upon  one  of  the  palings  of  the 
fence;  his  eyes  blinked  in  their  deep  cavities.  He 
made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  his  voice  hung  in  his 
mouth.  Then  he  coughed,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
slid  one  of  his  ill-shod  feet  backward,  as  he  always 
did  in  bowing,  and  said,  falteringly : 

"God  on  high  know,  young  marster,  dat  I'd  keep 
my  word  wid  you.  Old  Unc'  Lewis  would  keep  his 
word  wid  you  ef  dey  was  burnin'  'im  at  de  stake. 
You  been  de  bes'  friend  me'n  Mam'  Lindy  ever  had, 
young  marster.  You  been  de  kind  er  friend  dat  is 
er  friend.  When  you  tried  so  hard  t'other  night  ter 
save  my  boy  fum  dem  men  even  when  dey  was 
shootin'  at  you  en  tryin'  ter  drag  you  down — oh, 
young  marster,  I  wish  you'd  try  me.  I  want  ter 
show  you  how  I  feel  down  here  in  my  heart.  Dem 
folks  is  done  had  deir  way ;  my  boy  is  daid,  but  God 
know  it  makes  it  easier  ter  give  'im  up  ter  have  er 
young,  high-minded  white  man  lak  you — " 

"  Stop,  here's  Mam'  Linda,"  Carson  said.  "  Don't 
tell  her  now,  Lewis ;  wait  till  we  are  inside  the  house ; 
but  Pete  is  alive  and  safe." 

The  old  man's  eyes  opened  wide  in  an  almost  death- 
like stare,  and  he  leaned  heavily  against  the  fence. 

248 


Mam'    Linda 

"Oh,  young  marster,"  he  gasped,  "you  don't 
mean — you  sholy  can't  mean — 

"  Hush!  not  a  word."  Carson  cautioned  him  with 
uplifted  hand,  and  they  all  looked  at  old  Linda  as 
she  came  slowly  across  the  grass.  A  shudder  of 
horror  passed  over  Dwight  at  the  change  in  her. 
The  distorted,  swollen  face  was  that  of  a  dead  per- 
son, only  faintly  vitalized  by  some  mechanical  force. 
The  great,  always  mysterious  depths  of  her  eyes  were 
glowing  with  bestial  fires.  For  a  moment  she  paused 
near  them  and  stood  glaring  with  incongruous  de- 
fiance as  if  nothing  in  mortal  shape  could  mean  aught 
but  ill  towards  her. 

"Carson  has  something — something  very  impor- 
tant to  tell  you,  dear  mammy,"  Helen  said,  "but  we 
must  go  inside." 

"  He  ain't  got  nothin'  ter  tell  me  dat  I  don't  know," 
Linda  muttered,  "lessen  it  is  whar  dey  done  put 
my  chile's  body.  Ef  you  know  dat,  young  marster 
— ef— " 

But  old  Lewis  had  moved  to  her  side,  his  face 
ablaze.  He  laid  his  hand  forcibly  on  her  shoulder. 
"Hush,  'oman!"  he  cried.  "In  de  name  er  God, 
shet  yo'  mouf  en  listen  ter  young  marster — listen 
ter  'im  Linda,  honey — hurry  up — hurry  up  in  de 
house!" 

"Yes,  bring  her  in  here,"  Carson  said,  with  a  cau- 
tious glance  around,  and  he  and  Helen  and  Keith 
moved  along  the  walk  while  Linda  suffered  herself, 
more  like  an  automaton  than  a  human  being,  to  be 
half  dragged,  half  led  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
parlor.  Keith,  who  had  vaguely  put  her  in  the 
category  of  the  physically  ill,  placed  an  easy-chair 

249 


Mam'    Linda 

for  her,  but  from  force  of  habit,  while  in  the  presence 
of  her  superiors,  the  old  woman  refused  to  sit.  She 
and  Lewis  stood  side  by  side  while  Carson  carefully 
closed  the  door  and  came  back. 

"We've  got  some  very,  very  good  news  for  you, 
Mam'  Linda,"  said  he;  "but  you  must  not  speak  of 
it  to  a  soul.  Linda,  the  men  who  took  Pete  from 
jail  did  not  kill  him.  He  is  still  alive  and  safe,  so 
far,  from  harm." 

To  the  surprise  of  them  all,  Linda  only  stared 
blankly  at  the  tremulous  speaker.  It  was  her  hus- 
band who,  full  of  fire  and  new-found  happiness,  now 
leaned  over  her.  "  Didn't  you  hear  young  marster  ?" 
he  gulped;  "didn't  you  hear  'im  say  we-all's  boy 
was  erlive? — erlive,  honey?" 

With  an  arm  of  iron  Linda  pushed  him  back  and 
stood  before  Carson. 

"You  come  tell  me  dat?"  she  cried,  her  great 
breast  tumultuously  heaving.  "  Young  marster,  'fo' 
God  I  done  had  enough.  Don't  tell  me  dat  now,  en 
den  come  say  it's  er  big  mistake  after  you  find  out 
de  trufe." 

"  Pete's  all  right,  Linda,"  Carson  said,  reassuringly. 
"Keith  and  Helen  will  tell  you  about  it." 

With  an  appealing  look  in  her  eyes  Linda  extended 
a  detaining  hand  towards  him,  but  he  had  gone  to 
the  door  and  was  cautiously  looking  out,  his  attention 
being  drawn  to  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall. 
It  was  two  negro  maids  just  entering  the  house, 
having  left  half  a  dozen  other  negroes  on  the  walk 
in  front.  Going  out  into  the  hall,  Carson  com- 
manded the  maids  and  the  loiterers  to  go  away,  and 
the  astonished  blacks,  with  many  a  curious,  back- 

250 


Mam'    Linda 

ward  glance,  made  haste  to  do  his  bidding.  A  heavy 
frown  was  on  his  face  and  he  shrugged  his  broad 
shoulders  as  he  took  his  place  on  the  veranda  to 
guard  the  parlor  door.  "  It's  a  ticklish  business,"  he 
mused;  "if  we  are  not  very  careful  these  negroes 
will  drop  on  to  the  truth  in  no  time." 

He  had  dismissed  the  idlers  in  the  nick  of  time, 
for  there  was  a  sudden,  joyous  scream  from  Linda, 
a  chorus  of  warning  voices.  The  full  import  of  the 
good  news  was  only  just  breaking  upon  the  stunned 
consciousness  of  the  old  sufferer.  Screams  and 
sobs,  mingled  with  hysterical  laughter,  fell  upon 
Carson's  ears,  through  all  of  which  rang  the  persistent 
drone  of  Keith  Gordon's  manly  voice  in  gentle  ad- 
monition. The  door  of  the  parlor  opened  and  old 
Lewis  came  forth,  his  black  face  streaming  with 
tears.  Going  to  Carson  he  attempted  to  speak,  but, 
unable  to  utter  a  word,  he  grasped  the  young  man's 
hand,  and  pressing  it  to  his  lips  he  staggered  away. 
A  few  minutes  later  Keith  came  out  doggedly  trying 
to  divest  his  boyish  features  of  a  certain  glorified 
expression  that  had  settled  on  them. 

"Good  God!"  he  smiled  grimly,  as  he  fished  a 
cigar  from  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  "I'm  glad 
that's  over.  It  struck  her  like  a  tornado.  I'm 
glad  I'm  not  in  your  shoes.  She'll  literally  fall  on 
your  neck.  Good  Lord!  I've  heard  people  say  ne- 
groes haven't  any  gratitude — Linda's  burning  up 
with  it.  You  are  her  God,  old  man.  She  knows 
what  you  did,  and  she  knows,  too,  that  we  opposed 
you  to  the  last  minute." 

"You  told  her,  of  course,"  Carson  said,  reprov- 
ingly. 

asi 


Mam'    Linda 

"  I  had  to.  She  was  trying  to  dump  it  all  on  me 
as  the  only  member  of  the  gang  present.  I  told  her, 
the  whole  thing  was  born  in  your  brain  and  braced 
up  by  your  backbone.  Oh  yes,  I  told  her  how  we 
fought  your  plan  and  with  what  determination  you 
stuck  to  it  in  the  face  of  all  opposition.  No,  the 
rest  of  us  don't  deserve  any  credit.  We'd  have 
squelched  you  if  we  could.  Well,  I  simply  wasn't 
cut  out  for  heroic  things.  The  easy  road  has  always 
been  mine  to  any  destination,  but  I  reckon  nothing 
worth  much  was  ever  picked  up  by  chance." 

The  two  friends  had  gone  down  to  the  gate  and 
Keith  was  unhitching  his  horse,  when  Helen  came 
out  on  the  veranda,  and  seeing  Carson  she  hastened 
to  him. 

"She's  up  in  my  room,"  she  explained.  "I'm 
going  to  keep  her  there  for  the  rest  of  the  day  any- 
way. I'm  glad  now  that  we  took  so  much  pre- 
caution. She  admits  that  we  were  right  about  that. 
She  says  if  she  had  known  Pete  was  safe  she  might 
have  failed  to  keep  it  from  the  others.  But  she  is 
going  to  help  us  guard  the  secret  now.  But  oh, 
Carson,  she  is  already  begging  to  be  allowed  to  see 
Pete.  It's  pitiful.  There  are  moments  even  now 
when  she  even  seems  to  doubt  his  safety,  and  it  is  all 
I  can  do  to  convince  her.  She  is  begging  to  see  you, 
too.  Oh,  Carson,  when  you  told  me  about  it  why 
did  you  leave  out  the  part  you  took  ?  Keith  told  us 
all  about  your  fight  against  such  odds,  and  how  you 
sat  up  all  night  at  the  store  to  keep  the  poor  boy 
company." 

"Keith  was  with  me,"  Carson  said,  flushing, 
deeply.  "Well,  we've  got  Pete  bottled  up  where 

252 


Mam'    Linda 

he  is  safe  for  the  present,  but  there  is  no  telling  when 
suspicion  may  be  directed  to  us." 

"We  are  going  to  win;  I  feel  it!"  said  Helen, 
fervidly.  "Don't  forget  that  I'm  a  member  of  the 
clan.  I'm  proud  of  the  honor,"  and  pressing  his 
hand  warmly  she  hurried  back  to  the  house. 


XXXI 

IN  his  way  to  Blackburn's  store  the  next 
morning  to  inquire  about  the  prisoner, 
Carson  met  Garner  coming  out  of  the 
barber-shop,  where  he  had  just  been 
shaved. 

"Any  news?"  Carson  asked,  in  a  guarded  voice, 

though  they  were  really  out  of  earshot  of  any  one. 

"No  actual  news,"  Garner  replied,   stroking  his 

thickly  powdered  chin;  "but  I  don't  like  the  lay  of 

the  land." 

"What's  up  now?"  Dwight  asked. 
"I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  wrong  yet; 
but,  my  boy,  discovery — discovery  grim  and  threat- 
ening is  in  the  veiy  air  about  us." 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Garner?"  They 
paused  on  the  street  crossing  leading  over  to  Black- 
burn's store. 

"Oh,  it's  all  due  to  old  Linda  and  Lewis,"  Garner 
said,  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "  You  know  I  was  dead 
against  letting  them  know  Pete  was  alive." 

"You  think  we  made  a  mistake  in  that,  then?" 
Carson  said.  "Well,  the  pressure  was  simply  too 
strong,  and  I  had  to  give  way  under  it.  But  why 
do  you  think  it  was  a  bad  move  ?" 

"From  the  way  it's  turning  out,"  said  Garner. 
"While  Buck  Black  was  shaving  me  just  now  he 

254 


Mam'    Linda 

remarked  that  his  wife  had  seen  Uncle  Lewis  and 
Linda  and  that  she  thought  they  were  acting  very 
peculiarly.  I  asked  him  in  as  off-hand  and  careless 
a  manner  as  I  could  what  he  meant,  and  he  said 
that  his  wife  didn't  think  they  acted  exactly  as  if 
they  had  just  lost  their  only  child.  Buck  said  it 
looked  like  they  were  only  pretending  to  be  broken- 
hearted. I  thought  the  best  way  to  discourage  him 
was  to  be  silent,  and  so  I  closed  my  eyes  and  he  went 
on  with  his  work.  Presently,  however,  he  said ,  bluntly, 
'Look  here,  Colonel  Garner' — Buck  always  calls  me 
colonel — 'where  do  you  think  they  put  that  boy?' 
He  had  me  there,  you  know,  and  I  felt  ashamed 
of  myself.  The  idea  of  as  good  a  lawyer  as  there  is 
in  this  end  of  the  State  actually  wiggling  under  the 
eye  and  tongue  of  a  coon  as  black  as  the  ace  of 
spades!  Finally  I  told  him  that,  as  well  as  I  could 
gather,  the  Hillbend  faction  had  put  Pete  out  of  the 
way,  and  were  keeping  it  a  secret  to  intimidate  the 
negroes  through  their  natural  superstition .  And  what 
do  you  reckon  Buck  said.  Huh,  he'd  make  a  good 
detective!  He  said  he'd  had  his  eye  on  the  most 
rampant  of  the  Hillbend  men  and  that  they  didn't 
look  like  they'd  lynched  anything  as  big  as  a  mouse. 
In  fact,  he  thought  they  were  on  the  lookout  for  a 
good  opportunity  in  that  line." 

"It  certainly  looks  shaky,"  Carson  admitted,  as 
they  moved  on  to  the  store,  where  Blackburn  stood 
waiting  for  them  just  inside  the  doorway. 

"  How  did  Pete  pass  the  night?"  Carson  asked,  his 
brow  still  clouded  by  the  discouraging  observations 
of  his  partner. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  Blackburn  made  reply.  "Bob 
255 


Mam'   Linda 

and  Wade  slept  here  on  the  counters.  They  say 
he  snored  like  a  saw -mill.  They  could  hear  him 
through  the  floor.  Boys,  I  hate  to  dash  cold  water 
in  your  faces,  but  I  never  felt  as  shaky  in  my  life." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Garner  asked, 
with  an  uneasy  laugh. 

"I'm  afraid  a  storm  is  rising  in  an  unexpected 
quarter,"  said  the  store-keeper,  furtively  glancing  up 
and  down  the  street,  and  then  leading  them  farther 
back  into  the  store.  , 

"Which  quarter  is  that?"  Carson  asked,  anxiously. 

"The  sheriff  is  acting  odd — mighty  odd,"  said 
Blackburn. 

"Good  Lord!  you  don't  think  Braider's  really  on 
our  trail  do  you?"  Garner  cried,  in  genuine  alarm. 

"Well,  you  two  can  make  out  what  it  means  your- 
selves," and  Blackburn  pulled  at  his  short  chin 
whiskers  doggedly.  "It  was  only  about  half  an  hour 
ago — Braider's  drinking  some,  and  was,  perhaps,  on 
that  account  a  little  more  communicative — he  came 
in  here,  his  face  as  red  as  a  pickled  beet,  and  smell- 
ing like  a  bunghole  in  a  whiskey-barrel,  and  leaned 
against  the  counter  on  the  dry-goods  side. 

" '  I'm  the  legally  elected  sheriff  of  this  county, 
ain't  I?'  he  said,  in  his  maudlin  way,  and  I  told  him 
he  was  by  a  big  majority. 

"'Well,'  he  said,  after  looking  down  at  the  floor 
for  a  minute,  'I'll  bet  you  boys  think  I'm  a  dern 
slack  wad  of  an  officer.' 

"  I  didn't  know  what  the  devil  he  was  driving  at, 
and  so  I  simply  kept  my  mouth  shut,  but  you  bet 
your  life  I  had  my  ears  open,  for  there  was  something 
in  his  eye  that  I  didn't  like,  and  then  when  he  said 

256 


Mam'    Linda 

'you  boys'  in  that  tone  I  began  to  think  he  might 
be  on  to  the  work  we  did  the  other  night." 

"Well,  what  next?"  Carson  asked,  sharply. 

"Well,  he  just  leaned  on  the  counter,  about  to 
slide  down  every  minute,"  Blackburn  went  on,  "and 
then  he  began  to  laugh  in  a  silly  sort  of  way  and  said, 
'Them  Hillbend  fellers  are  a  slick  article,  ain't  they?' 
Of  course  I  didn't  know  what  to  say,"  said  the 
store-keeper,  "for  he  had  his  eyes  on  me  and  was 
grinning  to  beat  the  Dutch,  and  that  is  the  kind 
of  cross-examination  I  fail  at.  Finally,  however,  I 
managed  to  say  that  the  Hillbend  folks  had  beaten 
the  others  to  the  jail,  anywray,  and  he  broke  out  into 
another  knowing  laugh.  'The  Hillbend  gang  didn't 
have  as  fur  to  go,'  he  said.  'Oh,  they  are  a  slick 
article,  an'  they've  got  a  slick  young  leader."1 

"What  else?"  asked  Carson,  who  looked  very 
grave  and  stood  with  his  lips  pressed  together. 

"  Nothing  else,"  Blackburn  answered.  "  Just  then 
Wiggin,  your  boon  companion  and  bosom  friend, 
stopped  at  the  door  and  called  him." 

"  Good  Lord,  and  with  Wiggin!"  Garner  exclaimed. 
"  Our  cake  is  dough,  and  it's  good  and  wet." 

"  Yes,  he's  a  Wiggin  man!"  said  Blackburn.  "  I've 
known  he  was  pulling  against  Carson  for  some  time. 
It  seems  like  Braider  sized  up  the  situation,  and 
decided  if  he  was  going  to  be  re-elected  himself  he'd 
better  pool  issues  with  the  strongest  man,  and  he 
picked  that  skunk  as  the  winner.  I  went  to  the 
door  and  watched  them.  They  went  off,  arm  in  arm, 
towards  the  court-house." 

"Braider  is  evidently  on  to  us,"  Carson  decided, 
grimly;  "and  the  truth  is,  he  holds  us  in  the  palm 

257 


Mam'    Linda 

of  his  hand.  If  he  should  insist  on  carrying  out  the 
law,  and  rearresting  Pete  and  putting  him  back  in 
jail,  Dan  Willis  would  see  that  he  didn't  stay  there 
long,  and  Wiggin  would  swear  out  a  warrant  against 
us  as  the  greatest  law-breakers  unhung." 

"Oh  yes,  the  whole  thing  certainly  looks  shaky," 
admitted  Blackburn. 

"I  tell  you  one  thing,  Carson,"  Garner  observed, 
grimly,  "there  are  no  two  ways  about  it,  we  are 
going  to  lose  our  client  and  your  election  just  as  sure 
as  we  stand  here." 

"I  don't  intend  to  give  up  yet,"  Dwight  said,  his 
lip  twitching  nervously  and  a  fierce  look  of  determi- 
nation dawning  in  his  eyes.  "We've  accomplished 
too  much  so  far  to  fail  ignominiously.  Boys,  I'd  give 
everything  I  have  to  ward  this  thing  off  from  old 
Aunt  Linda.  She's  certainly  borne  enough." 

The  two  lawyers  went  to  their  office,  avoiding  the 
numerous  groups  of  men  about  the  stores  who  seemed 
occupied  with  the  different  phases  of  the  ever-present 
topic.  They  seated  themselves  at  their  desks,  and 
Garner  was  soon  at  work.  But  there  was  nothing 
for  Carson  to  do,  and  he  sat  gloomily  staring  through 
the  open  doorway  out  into  the  sunshine.  Presently 
he  saw  Braider  across  the  street  and  called  Garner's 
attention  to  him.  Then  to  their  surprise  the  sheriff 
turned  suddenly  and  came  directly  towards  them. 

"Gee,  here  he  comes!"  Garner  exclaimed;  "he 
may  want  to  pump  us.  Keep  a  sharp  eye  on  him, 
Carson.  He  may  really  not  know  anything  actually 
incriminating,  after  all.  Watch  him  like  a  hawk!" 


"YOU    ARE     Tiro    MEN    THAT    I    WANT    TO    TALK    TO '  " 


XXXII 

*HE  young  men  pretended  to  be  deeply 
absorbed  over  their  work  when  the 
stalwart  officer  loomed  up  in  the  door- 
way, his  broad-brimmed  hat  well  back 
on  his  head,  the  flush  of  intoxicants  in 
his  tanned  face,  his  step  unsteady. 

"  I  hope  I  won't  disturb  you,  gentlemen,"  he  said; 
"but  you  are  two  men  that  I  want  to  talk  to — I 
might  say  talk  to  as  a  brother." 

"Come  in,  come  in,  Braider,"  Carson  said;  "take 
that  chair." 

As  Braider  moved  with  uncertain  step  to  a  chair, 
tilted  it  to  one  side  to  divest  it  of  its  burden  of  books, 
newspapers,  and  old  briefs  and  other  defunct  legal 
documents,  Garner  with  a  wary  look  in  his  eye 
fished  a  solitary  cigar  from  his  pocket  —  the  one 
he  had  reserved  for  a  mid-day  smoke  —  and  prof- 
ered  it. 

"Have  a  cigar,"  he  said,  "and  make  yourself 
comfortable." 

The  sheriff  took  the  cigar  as  absent-mindedly  as 
he  would,  in  his  condition,  have  received  a  large  bank- 
note, and  held  it  too  tightly  for  its  preservation  in 
his  big  red  hand. 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  boys,  and  I  want  to 
say  a  whole  lot  that  I  hope  won't  go  any  further. 

25Q 


Mam'    Linda 

I've  always  meant  well  by  you  two,  and  hoped  fer 
your  success  both  in  the  law — and  politics." 

Garner  cast  an  amused  glance,  in  spite  of  the  grav- 
ity of  the  situation,  at  his  partner,  and  then  said, 
quite  evenly,  "We  know  that,  Braider — we  always 
have  known  it." 

"Well,  as  I  say,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I've  heard 
that  an  honest  confession  is  good  for  the  soul,  if 
not  for  the  pocket,  and  I'm  here  to  make  one,  as 
honest  as  I  kin  spit  it  out." 

"  Oh,  that's  it  ?"  said  Garner,  and  with  a  wary  look 
of  curiosity  on  his  face  he  sat  waiting. 

"Yes,  and  I  want  to  begin  back  at  the  first  and 
sort  o'  lead  up.  It's  hard  to  keep  a  fellow's  political 
leaning  hid,  Carson,  and  I  reckon  you  may  have 
heard  that  I  had  some  notion  of  casting  my  luck  in 
with  Wiggin." 

"  After  he  began  circulating  those  tales  about  me, 
yes,"  Carson  said,  with  a  touch  of  severity;  "not 
before,  Braider — at  least  not  when  I  worked  as  I 
did  the  last  time  for  your  own  election." 

"You  are  plumb  right,"  the  sheriff  said,  readily 
enough.  "I  flopped  over  sudden,  I'll  acknowledge; 
but  that's  neither  here  nor  there."  He  paused  for  a 
moment  and  the  lawyers  exchanged  steady  glances. 

"  He  may  want  to  make  a  bargain  with  us,"  Gar- 
ner's eyes  seemed  to  say,  but  Carson's  mind  had 
grasped  other  and  more  dire  possibilities  as  he  re- 
called Blackburn's  remark  of  a  few  minutes  before. 
In  fact,  all  those  assurances  of  good-will  might  mean 
naught  else  than  that  the  sheriff — at  the  instigation 
of  Wiggin  and  others — had  come  actually  to  arrest 
him  as  the  leader  of  the  men  who  had  intimidated 

260 


Mam'    Linda 

the  county  jailer  and  stolen  away  the  State's  pris- 
oner. The  thought  seemed  to  be  borne  telepath- 
ically  to  Garner,  for  that  worthy  all  at  once  sat 
more  rigidly,  more  aggressively  defiant  in  his  chair, 
and  the  pen  he  was  chewing  was  suspended  before 
his  lips.  This  beating  about  the  bush,  in  serious 
things,  at  least,  was  not  Garner's  method. 

"Well,  well,  Braider,"  he  said,  with  a  change  of 
tone  and  manner,  "tell  us  right  out  what  you  want. 
The  day  is  passing  and  we've  got  lots  to  do." 

"All  right,  all  right,"  agreed  the  intoxicated  man; 
"here  goes.  Boys,  what  I'm  going  to  say  is  a  sort 
of  per -personal  matter.  You've  both  treated  me 
like  a  respectable  citizen  and  officer  of  the  law,  and 
I've  taken  it  just  as  if  I  fully  deserved  the  honor. 
But  Jeff  Braider  ain't  no  hypocrite,  if  he  is  a  politi- 
cian and  hobnobs  with  that  sort  of  riffraff.  Boys, 
always,  away  down  at  the  bottom  of  everything  I 
ever  did  tackle  in  this  life,  has  been  the  memory 
of  my  old  mother's  teachings,  and  I've  tried  my 
level  best,  as  a  man,  to  live  up  to  'em.  I  don't  know 
as  I  ever  come  nigh  committing  crime — as  I  regard 
it  —  till  here  lately.  Crime,  they  tell  me,  stalks 
about  in  a  good  many  disguises.  The  crime  I'm 
talking  about  had  two  faces  to  it.  You  could  look 
at  it  one  way  and  it  would  seem  all  right,  and  then 
from  another  side  it  would  look  powerful  bad.  Well, 
I  first  saw  this  thing  the  night  the  mob  raided  Neb 
Wynn's  shanty  and  run  Pete  Warren  out  and  chased 
him  to  your  house,  Carson.  You  may  not  want  to 
look  me  in  the  eye  ag'in,  my  boy,  when  I  tell  you, 
but  I  could  have  come  to  your  aid  a  sight  quicker 
that  night  than  I  did  if  I  hadn't  been  loaded  down 

261 


Mam'    Linda 

with  so  many  fears  of  injury  to  myself.  As  I  saw 
that  big  mob  rushing  like  a  mad  river  after  that 
nigger,  I  said  to  myself,  I  did,  that  no  human  power 
or  authority  could  save  'im  anyway,  and  that  if  I 
stood  up  before  the  crowd  and  tried  to  quiet  them, 
that — well,  if  I  wasn't  shot  dead  in  my  tracks  I'd 
kill  myself  politically,  and  so  I  waited  in  the  edge  of 
the  crowd,  hiding  like  a  sneak-thief,  till — till  you  did 
the  work,  and  then  I  stepped  up  as  big  as  life  and 
pretended  that  I'd  just  arrived." 

"Oh!"  Garner  exclaimed,  and  he  stared  at  the 
bowed  head  of  the  officer  with  a  look  of  wonder  in 
his  eyes;  and  it  was  a  look  of  hope,  too,  for  surely 
no  human  being  of  exactly  this  stamp  would  take 
unfair  advantage  of  any  one. 

"That  was  the  first  time,"  Braider  gulped,  as  he 
went  on,  his  glance  now  directed  solely  to  Carson. 
"My  boy,  I  wrent  to  bed  that  night,  after  we  jailed 
that  nigger,  feeling  meaner  than  an  egg-sucking  dog 
looks  when  he's  caught  in  the  act.  If  there  is  any- 
thing on  earth  that  will  shame  a  man  it  is  to  see 
another  display  more  moral  and  physical  courage 
than  he  does,  and  you  did  enough  of  both  that 
night  to  show  me  where  I  stood.  It  was  a  new 
thing  to  me,  and  it  made  me  mad.  I  was  a  good 
soldier  in  the  wrar — I  wear  a  Confederate  veteran's 
I  badge  that  was  pinned  onto  my  coat  in  public  by  the 
I  beautiful  daughter  of  a  dead  comrade  —  but  being 
shot  at  in  a  bunch  ain't  the  same  as  being  the  only 
target,  and  I  showed  my  limit." 

"Oh,  you  are  exaggerating  the  whole  thing,"  Car- 
son said,  with  a  flush  of  embarrassment. 

"No  I  ain't,  Carson  Dwight,"  Braider  said,  feel- 
262 


Mam'  Linda 

ingly,  and  he  took  out  his  red  cotton  handkerchief 
and  wiped  his  eyes.  "  You  showed  me  that  night 
the  difference  between  bravery,  so-called,  and  the 
genuine  thing.  I  reckon  bravery  for  personal  gain 
is  a  weak  imitation  of  bravery  that  acts  just  out 
of  human  pity  as  yours  did  that  night.  Well, 
that  ain't  all.  The  next  day  I  was  put  to  a  worse 
test  than  ever.  It  was  noised  about,  you  know, 
that  a  bigger  mob  than  the  first  was  rising.  I 
stayed  out  of  the  centre  of  town  as  much  as  I  could, 
for  everywhere  I  went  folks  would  look  at  me  as  if 
they  thought  I'd  surely  do  something  to  protect  the 
prisoner,  and  at  home  my  wife  was  whimpering 
around  all  day,  saying  she  was  sure  Pete  was  in- 
nocent, or  enough  so  to  deserve  a  trial,  if  not  for 
himself  for  the  sake  of  his  mammy  and  daddy. 
But  what  was  such  a  wavering  thing  as  I  was  to  do  ? 
I  took  it  that  seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  men  who 
had  backed  me  with  their  ballot  in  my  election  was 
bent  on  lynching  the  prisoner,  and  if  I  opposed  them 
they  would  consider  me  a  traitor.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  was  up  against  this:  if  I  did  put  up  a  feeble 
sort  of  opposition  and  gave  in  easy  under  pressure, 
the  conservative  men,  like  some  we  have  here  in 
town,  would  say  I  didn't  mean  business  or  I'd  have 
actually  opened  fire  on  the  mob.  You  see,  boys,  I 
wasn't  man  enough  to  take  a  stand  either  way,  and 
though  I  well  knew  what  was  coming,  I  went  about 
lying  like  a  dog — lying  in  my  throat,  telling  every- 
body that  the  indications  snowed  that  the  excite- 
ment had  quieted  down.  I  went  home  that  night 
and  told  my  wife  all  was  serene,  and  I  drank  about 
a  quart  of  rye  whiskey  to  keep  me  from  thinking 
is  263 


Mam*   Linda 

about  the  business  and  went  to  bed,  but  my  con- 
science, I  reckon,  was  stronger  than  my  whiskey,  for 
I  rolled  and  tumbled  all  night.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was,  with  my  own  hands,  tying  the  rope  around 
that  pore  nigger's  neck.  There  I  lay,  a  sworn  officer 
of  the  law,  flat  on  my  back  with  not  enough  moral 
courage  in  my  miserable  carcass  to  have  killed  a 
gnat.  Carson,  if  I  saw  you  once  before  my  eyes  that 
long  night,  I  saw  you  five  hundred  times.  Your 
speech  rang  over  and  over  in  my  ears.  I  saw  you 
stand  there  when  a  ball  had  already  grazed  your 
brow  and  defy  them  to  shoot  again.  I  saw  that  poor 
black  boy  clinging  to  your  knees,  and  knew  that  the 
light  of  Heaven  had  shone  on  you,  while  I  lay  in  the 
hot  darkness  of  the  bottomless  pit." 

"God,  you  do  put  it  strong!"  Garner  exclaimed. 

"I'm  not  putting  it  half  strong  enough,"  the 
sheriff  went  on.  "  I  don't  deserve  to  hold  office  even 
in  a  community  half  run  by  mob  law.  But  I  ain't 
through.  I  ain't  through  yet.  I  got  up  early  that 
awful  morning,  and  went  out  to  feed  my  hogs  at  a 
pen  that  stands  on  a  back  street,  and  there  a  woman 
milking  a  cow  told  me  that  it  was  over.  Pete 
Warren  was  done  for — guilty  or  not,  he  was  done 
for.  I  went  in  the  house  and  tried  to  gulp  down  my 
breakfast,  faced  by  my  wife,  who  wouldn't  speak  to 
me,  and  showed  in  other  ways  what  she  thought 
about  the  whole  thing.  She  was  eternally  sighing 
and  going  on  about  old  Mammy  Lindy  and  her  feel- 
ings. I  first  went  to  the  jail,  and  there  I  was  told 
that  two  mobs  had  come,  the  first  the  Hillbend  crowd, 
who  did  the  work,  and  the  bigger  mob  that  got  there 
too  late." 

264 


Mam'    Linda 

Braider's  voice  had  grown  husky  and  he  coughed. 
Garner  stole  a  searching  glance  of  inquiry  at  Carson, 
but  Dwight,  his  face  suffused  with  a  warm  look  of 
pity  for  the  speaker,  was  steadily  staring  through  the 
open  door. 

"  I  ain't  done  yet,  God  knows  I  ain't,"  the  sheriff 
gulped.  "That  morning  I  felt  meaner  than  any 
convict  that  ever  wore  ball  and  chain.  If  I'd  been 
tried  and  found  guilty  of  stabbing  a  woman  in  the 
back  I  don't  believe  I  could  have  felt  less  like  a 
man.  I  tried  to  throw  it  all  off  by  thinking  that  I 
couldn't  have  done  any  good  anyway,  but  it  wouldn't 
work.  Carson,  you  and  your  plucky  stand  for  the 
maintenance  of  law  was  before  me,  and  you  wasn't 
paid  for  the  work  while  I  was.  Huh!  do  you  re- 
member seeing  me  as  you  came  out  of  Blackburn's 
store  that  morning,  with  your  hair  all  tousled  up 
and  your  eyes  looking  red  and  bloodshot?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  seeing  you,"  said  Dwight.  "I 
would  have  stopped  to  speak  to  you  but — but  I  was 
in  a  hurry  to  get  home." 

"Well,  you  may  have  heard  that  I  used  to  be  a 
sort  of  a  one-horse  detective,"  Braider  went  on, 
"and  I  had  acquired  a  habit  of  looking  for  the  ex- 
planation of  nearly  every  unusual  thing  I  saw,  and 
— well,  you  coming  out  of  that  store  before  it  was 
opened  for  trade,  while  the  shutters  in  the  front  was 
still  closed,  struck  me  as  odd.  Then  again,  remem- 
bering your  big  interest  in  Pete's  case,  somehow,  it 
didn't  seem  to  me — meeting  you  sudden  that  way — 
that  you  looked  quite  as  downhearted  as  I  expected. 
In  fact,  I  thought  you  appeared  sort  o'  satisfied  over 
something." 

265 


Mam'    Linda 

"Oh!"  Garner  exclaimed,  all  at  once  suspecting 
Braider  of  a  gigantic  ruse  to  entrap  them.  "You 
thought  he  looked  chipper,  did  you?  Well,  I  must 
say  he  looked  exactly  the  other  way  to  me  when  I 
first  saw  him  that  day." 

"Well,  it  started  me  to  wondering,  anyway,"  went 
on  the  sheriff,  ignoring  Garner's  interruption,  "  and 
I  set  to  work  to  watch.  I  hung  about  the  restaurant 
across  the  street,  smoking  a  cigar  and  keeping  my 
eyes  on  that  store.  After  awhile  I  saw  Bob  Smith 
go  in  the  store  and  then  Wade  Tingle.  Then  I  saw 
a  big  tray  of  grub  covered  with  a  white  cloth  sent 
from  the  Johnston  House,  and  Bob  Smith  come  to  the 
door  and  took  it  in,  sending  the  coon  that  fetched  it 
back  to  the  hotel.  Well,  I  waited  a  minute  or  two 
and  then  sauntered,  careless-like,  across  and  went  in. 
I  chatted  awhile  with  Bob  and  Wade,  noticing,  I  re- 
member, that  for  a  newspaper  man  Wade  seemed 
powerful  indifferent  about  gathering  items  about 
what  had  happened,  and  that  Blackburn  was  busy 
folding  up  a  tangled  lot  of  short  pieces  of  white 
sheeting.  All  this  time  I  was  looking  about  to  see 
where  that  waiter  full  of  grub  had  gone.  Not  a 
sign  of  it  was  in  sight,  but  in  a  lull  in  the  talk  I  heard 
the  clink  of  crockery  somewhere  below  me,  and  I 
caught  on.  Boys,  I'm  here  to  tell  you  that  never  did 
a  condemned  soul  feel  as  I  felt.  I  went  out  in  the 
open  air  praying,  actually  praying,  that  what  I  sus- 
pected might  be  true.  I  started  for  the  jail  and  on 
the  way  met  Burt  Barrett.  I  asked  him  for  partic- 
ulars, and  when  he  said  that  the  Hillbend  mob  had 
left  word  that  nobody  need  even  look  for  the  re- 
mains of  the  boy  my  heart  gave  a  big  jump  in  the 

266 


Mam'    Linda 

same  way  as  it  had  when  that  cup  and  saucer  collided 
in  that  cellar.  I  asked  Burt  if  he  noticed  which  way 
the  mob  tuck  the  prisoner,  and  he  said  down  towards 
town.  I  asked  him  if  it  wasn't  odd  for  Hillbend 
folks  to  go  that  way  to  hang  a  man,  and  he  agreed 
that  it  was.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  I  was 
on  to  your  gigantic  ruse,  and  God  above  knows  what 
a  load  it  took  off  of  me.  You  had  saved  me,  Carson 
—you  had  saved  me  from  toting  that  crime  to  my 
grave.  I  knew  you  were  the  ringleader,  for  I  didn't 
know  anybody  else  who  would  have  thought  of  such 
a  plan.  You  are  a  sight  younger  man  than  I  am, 
but  you  stuck  to  principle,  while  I  shirked  principle, 
duty,  and  everything  else.  Doing  all  that  was  hurt- 
ing your  political  chances,  and  you  knew  it,  but  you 
stuck  to  what  was  right  all  the  same." 

"Yes,  he  certainly  has  queered  his  political 
chances,"  Garner  said,  grimly,  with  a  look  of  wonder 
in  his  eye  over  the  sheriff's  frank  confession.  "  But 
you,  I  think  you  said,  were  a  Wiggin  man,"  he 
finished. 

"Well,  Wiggin  and  some  others  think  I  am  yet," 
said  Braider;  "and  I  reckon  I  was  till  this  thing 
come  up;  but,  boys,  I  guess  I've  got  a  little  smidgin 
of  good  left  in  me,  for  somehow  Wiggin  has  turned 
my  stomach.  But  I  hain't  got  to  what  I  was  leading 
up  to.  Neither  one  of  you  hain't  admitted  that 
there  is  a  nigger  in  that  wood-pile  yet,  and  I  don't 
blame  you  for  keeping  it  to  yourselves.  That  is  your 
business,  but  the  time  has  come  when  Jeff  Braider's 
got  to  do  the  right  thing  or  plunge  deeper  into  hell- 
ishness,  and  he's  had  a  taste  of  what  it  means  and 
don't  want  no  more  of  it.  I  may  lose  all  I've  got  by 

267 


Mam'    Linda 

it.  Wiggin  and  his  gang  may  beat  me  to  a  cold 
finish  next  election,  but  from  now  on  I'm  on  the 
other  side." 

"Good,"  said  Garner;  "that's  the  way  to  talk. 
Was  that  what  you  were  leading  up  to,  Braider?" 

"Not  altogether,"  and  the  sheriff  rose  and  stood 
over  Carson,  resting  his  hand  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder  to  steady  himself.  "My  boy,  I've  come  to 
tell  you  that  the  damnedest,  blackest  plot  agin  you 
that  ever  was  laid  has  been  hatched  out." 

"What  is  that,  Braider?"  Carson  asked,  calmly 
enough  under  the  circumstances. 

"  Wiggin  and  his  gang  have  found  out  that  a  trick 
was  played  night  before  last.  The  Hillbend  men 
convinced  them  that  they  didn't  lynch  anybody,  and 
the  Wiggin  crowd  smelt  around  until  they  dropped 
on  to  the  thing.  The  only  fact  they  are  short  on  is 
where  the  boy  is  hid.  They  think  he  is  in  the  house 
of  one  of  the  negro  preachers.  Wiggin  come  to  me, 
not  half  an  hour  ago,  and  considering  me  one  of  his 
stand-bys,  he  told  me  all  about  it.  The  scheme  is 
for  me  to  arrest  Pete  and  jail  'im  on  the  charge  of 
murder  and  then  to  arrest  you  fer  being  the  ring- 
leader of  a  jail -breaking  gang,  who  preaches  law  and 
order  in  public  for  political  gain  and  breaks  both  in 
secret." 

"And  what  do  they  think  will  become  of  Pete?" 
Carson  asked,  a  touch  of  supreme  bitterness  in  his 
tone. 

"Wiggin  didn't  say;  but  I  know  what  would  hap- 
pen to  him.  The  seeds  of  bloody  riot  are  being  strewn 
broadcast  by  the  handful.  They've  been  to  every 
member  of  the  crowd  that  lynched  Sam  Dudlow 

268 


Mam'    Linda 

and  warned  them,  on  their  lives,  not  to  repeat  the 
statement  that  Dudlow  had  said  Pete  was  innocent. 
They  told  the  lynchers  that  you  two  lawyers  were 
on  the  hunt  for  men  who  had  heard  the  confession 
and  intend  to  use  that  as  evidence  against  them." 

"Ah,  that  is  slick,  slick!"  Garner  muttered. 

"Slick  as  double  -  distilled  goose-grease,"  said 
Braider.  "The  lynchers  are  denying  to  friend  or 
foe  that  Dudlow  said  a  word,  and  the  news  is  spread- 
ing like  wildfire  that  Pete  was  Dudlow's  accomplice, 
and  that  you,  Carson,  are  trying,  with  a  gang  of 
town  dudes,  to  carry  your  point  by  main,  bull-head- 
ed force." 

"  I  see,  I  see."  Carson  had  risen  and  with  a  deep 
frown  on  his  face  stood  leaning  against  the  top  of  his 
desk.  He  extended  his  hand  to  the  officer  and  said, 
"  I  appreciate  your  telling  me  all  this,  Braider,  more 
than  I  can  say." 

"What's  the  good  of  my  telling  you  if  the  news 
doesn't  benefit  you?"  the  sheriff  asked.  "Carson, 
I  want  to  see  you  win.  I  ain't  half  a  man  myself, 
but  I've  got  two  little  boys  just  starting  to  grow  up, 
and  I  wish  they  could  be  like  you — a  two-legged 
bull-dog  that  clamps  his  teeth  on  what's  right  and 
won't  let  loose.  Carson,  you've  got  a  chance — a 
bare  chance — to  get  your  man  out  alive." 

"What's  that?"  Dwight  asked,  eagerly. 

"Why,  let  me  hold  the  mob  in  check  by  promising 
to  arrest  Pete,  and  you  get  some  trusty  feller  to  take 
him  in  a  buggy  to-night  through  the  country  to 
Chattanooga.  It  would  be  a  ticklish  trip,  and  you 
want  a  man  that  won't  get  scared  at  his  shadow,  for 
on  every  road  out  of  Barley,  men  will  be  on  the  look- 

269 


Mam'    Linda 

out,  but  if  you  once  got  him  there  he  would  be  abso- 
lutely safe,  for  no  mob  would  go  out  of  the  State  to 
do  work  of  that  sort.  Getting  a  good  man  is  the 
main  thing." 

"I'll  do  it  myself,"  Dwight  said,  firmly. 

"You?"  Garner  cried.     "That's  absurd!" 

"I'm  the  only  one  who  could  do  it,"  Carson  de- 
clared, "for  Pete  would  not  go  with  any  one  else." 

"I  really  believe  you  are  right,"  Garner  agreed, 
reluctantly;  "but  it  is  a  nasty  undertaking  after  all 
you've  been  through." 

"By  gum!"  exclaimed  Braider,  extending  his 
hand  to  Dwight.  "I  hope  you  will  do  it.  I  want  to 
see  you  complete  a  darn  good  all-round  job." 

"Well,  you  are  an  officer  of  the  law,"  Garner  ob- 
served, with  amusement  written  all  over  his  rugged 
face,  "asking  a  man  to  steal  your  own  prisoner." 

"What  else  can  I  do  that's  at  all  decent?"  Braider 
asked.  "Besides,  do  you  fellows  know  that  there 
never  has  been  any  written  warrant  for  Pete's  ar- 
rest. I  started  to  jail  him  without  any,  and  old  Mrs. 
Parsons  turned  him  loose.  The  only  time  he  was 
put  in  jail  was  by  Carson  himself.  By  George!  as  I 
look  at  it,  Carson,  you  have  every  right  to  take  him 
out  of  jail,  by  any  hook  or  crook,  since  you  was  re- 
sponsible for  him  being  there  instead  of  hanging  to  a 
limb  of  a  tree.  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  there  ain't  any 
law  on  earth  that  can  touch  you.  Nobody  is  pre- 
pared to  testify  against  Pete,  and  if  you  will  get  him 
to  Chattanooga  and  keep  him  there  for  a  while  he 
can  come  back  here  a  free  man." 

"I  have  friends  there  who  will  look  after  him," 
Dwight  said.  "I'll  start  with  him  to-night." 

279 


XXXIII 

>HAT  afternoon  Keith  Gordon  went  to 
Warren's  to  tell  Helen  of  Carson's  plan 
for  the  removal  of  Pete.  She  received 
him  in  the  big  parlor,  and  he  found 
her  seated  at  one  of  the  wide  windows 
which,  in  summer-time,  was  used  as  a  doorway  to 
the  veranda. 

"I  met  the  conquering  hero,  Mr.  Sanders,  on  my 
way  down,"  he  said,  lightly.  "I  presume  he  has 
been  here  as  usual." 

"  He  only  called  to  say  good-bye,"  Helen  answered, 
a  little  coldly. 

"Oh,  that  is  news,"  Keith  pursued,  in  the  same 
tone.  "Rather  sudden,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  his  affairs  would  not  permit  a  longer  visit," 
said  Helen.  "  But  you  didn't  come  to  talk  of  him ;  it 
was  something  about  Pete." 

She  sat  very  still  and  rigid  while  he  went  into  de- 
tail as  to  the  whole  situation,  and  when  he  had 
finished  she  rested  her  chin  in  her  white  hand,  and 
he  saw  her  breast  rise  and  fall  tremulously. 

"There  is  danger  attached  to  the  trip,"  she  said, 
without  looking  at  him.  "I  know  it,  Keith,  by  the 
way  you  talk." 

He  deliberated  for  an  instant,  then  acknowledged : 
"Yes,  there  is,  and  to  my  way  of  thinking,  Helen, 

271 


Mam'    Linda 

there  is  a  great  deal.  Wade  and  I  tried  to  get  him 
to  consent  to  some  other  plan,  but  he  wouldn't  hear 
to  it.  He's  so  anxious  to  put  it  through  all  right 
that  he  won't  trust  to  any  substitute,  and  he  won't 
let  any  one  else  go  along,  either.  He  thinks  it  would 
attract  too  much  attention." 

"In  what  particular  way  does  the  danger  lie?" 
Helen  faltered,  and  Keith  saw  her  pass  her  hand 
over  her  mouth  as  if  to  reprimand  her  lips  for  their 
unsteadiness. 

"I'd  tell  you  there  wasn't  any  at  all,  as  Carson 
would  have  me  do,"  Keith  declared;  "but  when  a 
fellow  has  the  courage  of  an  army  of  men,  I  believe 
in  his  getting  the  full  credit  for  it.  You  want  to 
know  and  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  He's  been  through 
ticklish  places  enough  in  this  business,  but  going 
over  that  lonely  road  to-night,  when  a  thousand 
furious  men  may  be  on  the  lookout  for  him,  is  the 
worst  thing  he  has  tackled.  It  wouldn't  be  so 
very  dangerous  to  a  man  who  would  throw  up  his 
hands  if  accosted,  but,  Helen,  if  you  could  have 
seen  Carson's  face  when  he  was  telling  us  about  it, 
you  would  know  that  he  will  actually  die  rather 
than  see  Pete  taken.  He's  reckless  of  late,  any- 
way." 

"Reckless!"  Helen  echoed,  and  this  time  she  gave 
Keith  a  full,  almost  pleading  stare. 

"Oh  yes,  you  know  he's  reckless.  He's  been  so 
ever  since  Mr.  Sanders  came.  It  looks  to  me  like — 
well,  I  reckon  a  man  can  understand  another  better 
than  a  woman  can,  but  it  looks  to  me  like  Carson  is 
doing  the  whole  thing  because  you  feel  so  worried 
about  it." 

272 


Mam'   Linda 

"You  certainly  wrong  him  there,"  Helen  declared. 
"He  is  doing  it  simply  because  it  is  right." 

"Oh,  of  course  he  thinks  it's  right,"  Keith  returned, 
with  a  boyish  smile;  "he  thinks  everything  you  want 
is  right." 

When  Keith  had  gone  Helen  went  at  once  to 
Linda's  cottage  to  tell  her  the  news,  putting  it  in  as 
hopeful  a  light  as  possible,  and  not  touching  upon 
the  danger  of  the  journey.  But  the  old  woman  had 
a  very  penetrating  mind,  and  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way with  a  deeply  furrowed  brow  for  several  minutes 
without  saying  anything,  then  her  observation  only 
added  to  Helen's  burden  of  anxiety. 

"Chile,"  she  said,  "ol'  Lindy  don't  like  de  way 
dat  looks  one  bit.  You  say  young  marster  got  ter 
steal  off  in  de  dead  o'  night,  en  dat  he  cayn't  even 
let  me  see  my  boy  once  'fo'  he  go.  Suppin  up, 
honey  —  suppin  up!  De  danger  ain't  over  yit. 
Honey,  I  know  what  it  is,"  Linda  groaned;  "dem 
white  folks  is  rising  ergin." 

"Well,  even  if  that  is  the  reason" — Helen  felt 
the  chill  hand  of  fear  grasp  her  heart  at  the  admis- 
sion— "even  if  that  is  it,  Carson  will  get  him  away 
safely." 

"Ef  he  kin,  honey,  ef  he  kin!"  Linda  moaned. 
' '  God  been  behind  'im  all  thoo  so  fur,  but  I  seed  de 
time  when  de  Lawd  Hisse'f  seem  ter  turn  His  back 
on  folks  tryin'  ter  do  dey  level  best." 

Leaving  Linda  muttering  and  moaning  in  the 
cottage  doorway,  the  girl  went  with  a  despondent 
step  back  to  the  big  empty  house  and  wandered 
aimlessly  about  the  various  rooms. 

As  night  came  on  and  her  father  returned  from 
273 


Mam'    Linda 

town,  she  met  him  on  the  veranda  and  gave  him  a 
kiss  of  greeting,  but  she  soon  discovered  that  he  had 
heard  nothing.  In  fact,  he  was  one  of  the  many 
who  still  believed  that  Pete  had  been  lynched,  the 
vague  whisperings  to  the  contrary  not  having  reach- 
ed his  old  ears.  She  sat  with  him  at  the  tea-table, 
and  then  went  up  to  her  room  and  lighted  her  lamp 
on  her  bureau.  As  she  did  so  she  looked  at  her  re- 
flection in  the  mirror  and  started  at  the  sight  of  her 
grave  features.  Then  a  flash  from  her  wrist  caught 
her  eye.  It  was  the  big  diamond  of  a  beautiful 
bracelet  which  Sanders  had  given  her,  and  as  she 
looked  at  it  she  shuddered.  Was  she  superstitious  ? 
She  hardly  knew,  and  yet  a  strange  idea  took  pos- 
session of  her  brain.  Would  her  unspoken  prayers 
for  Carson  Dwight's  safety  in  his  perilous  expedition 
be  answered  while  she  wore  that  gift  from  another 
man,  after  she  had  spurned  Carson's  great  and  last- 
ing love,  and  allowed  the  poor  boy  to  think  that  she 
had  given  herself  heart  and  soul  to  this  stranger? 
She  hesitated  only  a  moment,  and  opening  a  jewel 
box  she  unclasped  the  bracelet  and  put  it  away. 
Then  with  a  certain  lightness  of  heart  she  went  to 
the  window  overlooking  the  grounds  of  the  Dwight 
homestead  and  stood  there  staring  out  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  Carson.  But  he  was  evidently  not  at  home, 
for  no  lights  were  visible  except  a  dim  one  in  the 
invalid's  room  and  one  in  old  Dwight's  chamber 
adjoining. 

At  ten  o'clock  Helen  disrobed  herself  still  with 
that  awful  sense  of  impending  tragedy  hovering  over 
her.  The  oil  in  her  lamp  was  almost  out,  and  for 
this  reason  only  she  extinguished  the  flame,  else 

274 


Mam'    Linda 

she  would  have  kept  it  burning  through  the  night  to 
dissipate  the  material  shadows  which  seemed  to 
accentuate  those  of  her  spirit.  She  heard  the  old 
grandfather  clock  on  the  stair-landing  below  solemn- 
ly strike  ten,  then  the  monotonous  tick-tack  as  the 
great  pendulum  swung  to  and  fro.  Sleep  was  out 
of  the  question.  A  few  minutes  before  eleven  she 
heard  a  soft  foot -fall  on  the  walk  in  the  front 
garden,  and  going  out  on  the  veranda  she  looked 
down. 

The  bowed  form  of  a  woman  was  moving  restlessly 
back  and  forth  from  the  steps  to  the  gate. 

"Is  that  you,  mammy?"  Helen  asked,  softly. 

The  handkerchiefed  head  was  lifted  and  Linda 
looked  up. 

"Yes,  it's  me,  honey.  I  can't  sleep.  What  de 
use?  Kin  er  mother  sleep  when  her  chile  is  comin' 
in  de  worl'  ?  No,  you  know  she  can't ;  neither  kin 
she  close  'er  eyes  when  she's  af eared  dat  same  chile 
is  gwine  out  of  it.  I'm  af  eared,  honey.  I'm  af  eared 
ter-night  wuss  dan  all.  Seem  lak  de  evil  sperits  des 
been  play  in'  wid  us  all  erlong — makin'  us  think  we 
gwine  ter  come  thoo,  so  't  will  hit  us  harder  w'en  it 
do  strack  de  blow.  You  go  on  back  ter  yo'  baid, 
honey.  You  catch  yo'  death  er  cold.  I'm  gwine 
home  right  now." 

Helen  saw  the  old  woman  disappear  round  the 
corner  of  the  house,  but  she  remained  on  the  ve- 
randa. The  clock  was  striking  eleven,  and  she  was 
about  to  go  in ,  when  she  heard  the  dull  beat  of  hoofs 
on  the  carriage-drive  of  the  Dwight  place,  and 
through  the  half  moonlight  she  saw  a  pair  of  horses, 
Carson's  best,  harnessed  to  a  buggy  and  driven  by 

275 


Mam'   Linda 

their  owner  slowly  and  cautiously  going  towards  the 
big  gate.  Dwight  himself  got  down  to  open  it. 
She  heard  his  low  commands  to  the  spirited  animals 
as  he  led  them  forward  by  the  bit,  and  then  he 
stepped  back  to  close  and  latch  the  gate.  She  had 
an  overpowering  impulse  to  call  out  to  him;  but 
would  it  be  wise?  His  evident  precaution  was  to 
keep  his  mother  from  knowing  of  his  departure,  and 
Helen's  voice  might  attract  the  attention  of  the  in- 
valid and  seriously  hamper  him  in  his  undertaking. 
With  her  hands  pressed  to  her  breast  she  saw  him  get 
into  the  buggy,  heard  his  calm  voice  as  he  spoke  to 
the  horses,  and  then  he  was  off — off  to  do  his  duty — 
and  hers.  She  went  back  to  her  room  and  laid  down, 
haunted  by  the  weird  thought  that  she  would  never 
see  him  again.  Then,  all  at  once,  she  had  a  flash 
of  memory  which  sent  the  hot  blood  of  shame  from 
her  heart  to  her  brain,  and  she  sat  up,  staring 
through  the  darkness.  That  was  the  man  against 
whom  she  had  steeled  her  heart  for  his  conduct,  his 
youthful  indiscretions  with  her  unfortunate  brother. 
Was  Carson  Dwight  to  go  forever  unpardoned — un- 
pardoned  by  such  as  she  while  that  sort  of  soul  held 
suffering  sway  within  him  ? 

The  hours  of  the  long  night  dragged  by  and  an- 
other day  began.  Keith  came  up  after  breakfast 
and  related  the  particulars  of  Carson's  departure. 
Graphically  he  recounted  how  the  gang  had  robed  the 
ill-starred  Pete  in  grotesque  woman's  attire  and  seen 
him  and  Carson  safely  in  the  buggy,  but  that  was  all 
that  could  be  told  or  foretold.  As  for  Keith,  he  and 
all  the  rest  were  trying  to  look  on  the  bright  side, 
and  they  would  succeed  better  but  for  the  long  face 

276 


Mam'    Linda 

Pole  Baker  had  drawn  when  he  came  into  town 
early  that  morning  and  heard  of  the  expedition. 

"So  he  was  uneasy?"  Helen  said,  in  perturbation. 

Keith  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  answered : 
"Yes,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Helen,  it  almost  stag- 
gered him.  He  is  a  good-natured,  long-headed  chap, 
and  he  lost  his  temper.  He  cursed  us  all  out  for  a 
silly,  stupid  set  for  allowing  Carson  to  take  such  a 
risk.  Finally  we  drew  out  of  him  what  he  feared. 
He  said  the  particular  road  Carson  took  to  reach  the 
State  line  was  actually  alive  with  men,  who  had  been 
keyed  up  to  the  highest  tension  by  Wiggin  and  his 
followers.  Pole  said  they  had  their  eye  on  that 
road  particularly  because  it  was  the  most  direct  way 
to  Chattanooga,  and  that  Carson  wouldn't  have  one 
chance  in  five  hundred  of  passing  unmolested.  He 
said  the  idea  of  fooling  men  of  that  stamp  by  putting 
Pete  in  a  woman's  dress  in  the  company  of  Carson, 
of  all  human  beings,  was  the  work  of  insane  men." 

"  It  really  was  dangerous!"  said  Helen,  pale  to  the 
lips. 

"Well,  we  meant  it  for  the  best" — Keith  defend- 
ed himself  and  his  friends  —  "we  didn't  know  the 
road  was  a  particularly  dangerous  one.  In  fact,  Pole 
didn't  learn  it  himself  until  several  hours  after  Car- 
son had  left.  I  really  believe  he'd  have  helped  us  do 
what  we  did  if  he  had  been  with  us  last  night.  We 
did  the  best  we  could ;  besides,  Carson  was  going  to 
have  his  way.  Every  protest  we  made  was  swept 
off  with  that  winning  laugh  of  his.  In  spite  of  the 
gravity  of  the  thing,  he  kept  us  roaring.  I  have 
never  seen  him  in  better  spirits.  He  was  bowing 
and  scraping  before  that  veiled  and  hooded  darky 

277 


Mam'    Linda 

as  if  he  were  the  grandest  lady  in  the  land.  He 
even  insisted  on  handing  Pete  into  the  buggy  and 
protecting  his  long  skirt  from  the  dusty  wheel.  We 
never  realized  what  we  had  done  till  he  was  gone  and 
we  all  gathered  in  the  store  and  talked  it  over. 
Blackburn,  I  reckon,  being  the  oldest,  was  the  bluest. 
He  almost  cried.  Helen,  I've  seen  popular  men  in 
my  life,  but  I  never  saw  one  with  so  many  friends 
as  Carson.  He's  an  odd  combination.  His  friends 
love  him  extravagantly  and  his  enemies  hate  him 
to  the  limit." 

Late  that  afternoon,  unable  to  wait  longer  for 
news  of  Carson,  Helen  went  down  to  his  office. 
Garner  was  in,  and  she  surprised  a  look  of  firmly 
grounded  uneasiness  on  his  strong  face.  For  a  mo- 
ment it  was  as  if  he  intended  to  make  some  equivocal 
reply  to  her  inquiry,  but  threw  aside  the  impulse  as 
unworthy  of  her  courage  and  intelligence. 

"To  be  candid,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  stroking  his 
chin,  which  bristled  with  open  disregard  for  ap- 
pearances under  stress  of  more  important  things — 
"to  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  Miss  Helen,  I  don't 
like  the  lay  of  the  land."  Then  he  told  her  that 
the  sheriff  had  just  informed  him  of  the  whispered 
rumor  that  a  body  of  men  had  met  Carson  D  wight 
and  his  charge  near  the  State  line  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  What  had  taken  place  the 
sheriff  didn't  know,  beyond  the  fact  that  the  men 
had  disbanded  and  returned  to  their  homes  all 
gravely  uncommunicative.  What  it  meant  no  one 
but  the  participants  knew.  To  face  the  facts,  it 
looked  very  much  as  if  harm  had  really  come  to  one, 
if  not  to  both,  of  the  two.  The  mob  had  evidently 

278 


Mam'   Linda 

been  wrought  to  a  high  pitch  of  resentment  for  the 
trick  Carson  had  played  in  stealing  the  prisoner  from 
jail,  and  this  second  attempt  to  get  him  away  may 
have  enraged  his  enemies  to  outright  violence  against 
him,  especially  as  Dwight  was  a  fighting  man  and 
very  hot-headed  when  roused. 

Unable  to  discuss  the  matter  in  her  depressed 
frame  of  mind,  Helen  left  him  and  went  home. 
The  whole  story  being  now  out,  she  found  her  father 
warmly  excited  and  disposed  to  talk  about  it  in  all 
its  phases,  the  earliest  as  well  as  the  latest,  but  she 
had  no  heart  for  it,  and  after  urging  the  Major  not 
to  speak  of  it  to  Linda  she  went  supperless  to  her 
room. 

Two  hours  passed.  The  dusk  had  given  way  to 
the  deeper  darkness  of  evening.  The  moon  had 
not  yet  risen  and  the  starlight  from  a  partly  clouded 
sky  was  not  sufficiently  luminous  to  aid  the  vision 
in  reaching  any  considerable  distance,  and  yet  from 
one  of  the  rear  windows  of  her  room,  where  she  stood 
morosely  contemplative,  she  could  see  the  vague 
outlines  of  Linda's  cottage.  It  was  while  she  was 
looking  at  the  doorway  of  the  little  domicile,  which 
stood  out  above  the  shrubbery  of  the  rear  garden 
as  if  dimly  lighted  from  a  candle  within,  that  she 
saw  something  which  caused  her  heart  to  suddenly 
bound.  It  was  the  live  coal  of  a  cigar,  and  the  smoker 
seemed  to  be  leaving  the  cottage,  passing  through 
the  little  gateway,  and  entering  her  father's  grounds. 
What  more  natural  than  for  Carson,  if  he  had  re- 
turned safely,  to  go  at  once  to  the  mother  of  the  boy 
with  the  news?  Helen  almost  held  her  breath. 
She  would  soon  be  reasonably  sure,  for  if  it  were 
19  279 


Mam'    Linda 

Carson  he  wpuld  take  a  diagonal  direction  to  reach 
the  gateway  to  the  D wight  homestead.  Was  it 
Carson,  or — could  it  be  her  father  ?  Her  heart  sank 
over  the  last  surmise,  and  then  it  bounded  again,  for 
the  coal  of  fire,  fitfully  flaring,  was  moving  in  the 
direction  prayed  for.  Down  the  stairs  Helen  glided 
noiselessly,  lest  the  Major  hear  her,  and  yet  rapidly. 
When  she  reached  the  front  veranda  and  descended 
the  steps  to  the  grass  of  the  lawn  she  was  just  in 
time  to  see  the  red  disk  passing  through  the  gateway 
to  D  wight's.  No  form  was  visible,  and  yet  she 
called  out  firmly  and  clearly : 

"Carson!  Carson!"  The  coal  of  fire  paused,  de- 
scribed a  curve,  and  she  bounded  towards  it. 

"Did  you  call  me?"  Carson  D  wight  asked,  in  a 
voice  so  low  from  hoarseness  that  it  hardly  reached 
her  ears. 

"Yes,  wait!"  she  panted.  "Oh,  you've  gotten 
back!" 

They  now  stood  face  to  face. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  laughed,  with  a  gesture  towards  his 
throat  of  apology  for  his  hoarseness;  "did  you  think 
I  was  off  for  good  ?" 

"No,  but  I  was  afraid" — she  was  shocked  by  the 
pallor  of  his  usually  ruddy  face,  the  many  evidences 
of  fatigue  upon  him,  the  nervous  way  he  stood  hold- 
ing his  hat  and  cigar — "  I  was  afraid  you  had  met 
with  disaster." 

"But  why  did  you  feel  that  way?"  he  asked,  re- 
assuringly. 

"Oh,  from  what  Keith  said  in  general,  and  Mr. 
Garner,  too.  They  declared  the  road  you  took  was 
full  of  desperadoes,  and — 

280 


Mam'    Linda 

"  I  might  have  known  they  would  exaggerate  the 
whole  business,"  Carson  said,  with  a  smile.  "Why, 
I've  just  come  from  Mam'  Linda's.  I  went  to  tell 
her  that  Pete  is  all  right  and  as  sound  as  a  dollar. 
He's  in  the  charge  of  good,  reliable  friends  of  mine 
up  there,  and  wholly  out  of  danger.  In  fact,  he's  as 
happy  as  a  lark.  When  I  left  him  he  was  surround- 
ed by  a  gang  of  as  trifling  scamps  as  himself  brag- 
ging about  his  numerous  escapes  and — he's  gener- 
ous— my  importance  in  the  community  we  live  in. 
Well,  he's  certainly  been  important  enough  lately." 

"  But  did  you  not  meet  with — with  any  opposition 
at  all?"  Helen  went  on,  insistently. 

"Oh,  well"  —  he  hesitated,  struck  a  match,  and 
applied  it  to  his  already  lighted  cigar — "  we  lost  our 
way,  for  one  thing.  You  see,  I  was  a  little  afraid  to 
carry  a  light,  and  it  was  hard  to  make  out  the  dif- 
ferent sign-boards,  and,  all  in  all,  it  was  a  slow  trip, 
but  we  got  through  all  right.  And  hungry!  Gee 
whiz!  We  struck  a  restaurant  in  the  outskirts  of 
Chattanooga  about  sunup,  and  while  that  fellow 
was  cooking  us  some  steak  and  making  coffee  we 
could  have  eaten  him  alive.  If  Mam'  Linda  could 
have  seen  her  boy  eat  she  would  have  no  fears  as  to 
his  bodily  condition." 

"But  didn't  you  meet  some  men  who  stopped 
you?"  Helen  asked,  staring  steadily  into  his  eyes. 

He  blinked,  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,  and 
said: 

"  Yes,  we  did,  and  they  were  really  on  the  war-path, 
but  they  seemed  very  reasonable,  and  when  I  had 
talked  to  them  and  explained  the  matter  from  our 
stand-point — why,  they — they  let  us  go." 

281 


Mam'    Linda 

They  had  gone  into  the  grounds  and  were  near  the 
main  walk  when  the  gate  was  opened  and  a  man  came 
striding  towards  them.  It  was  Jeff  Braider. 

"Oh,  I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere, 
Carson,"  he  cried,  warmly,  shaking  Dwight's  hand. 
"  I  heard  you'd  got  back,  but  I  wanted  to  see  you 
with  my  own  eyes.  Lord,  Lord,  my  boy,  if  I'd 
known  the  awful  trouble  I  was  getting  you  into  I'd 
never  have  let  you  take  that  road.  I've  just  heard 
the  whole  story.  For  genuine  pluck  and  endurance 
you  certainly  take  the  rag  off  the  bush.  Why,  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  thousand 
would  have  given  up  the  game,  but  you,  you  young 
bull-dog—" 

"Carson,  Carson!  are  you  down  there?"  It  was 
a  man's  voice  from  an  upper  window. 

"Yes,  father,  what  is  it?" 

"  Your  mother  wants  to  see  you  right  now.  She's 
waked  up  and  is  worrying.  Come  on  in." 

"You'll  both  excuse  me  for  just  a  moment,  I 
know,"  Carson  said,  as  if  glad  of  the  interruption. 
"  I'll  be  back  presently.  I  haven't  seen  my  mother 
since  I  returned,  and  she  is  very  nervous  and  easily 
excited." 


XXXIV 

[O  you  are  the  only  lady  member  of  the 
secret  gang  that  stole  my  prisoner!" 
the  sheriff  said,  laughingly.  "The  boys 
told  me  all  about  it." 

"  I  wasn't  taken  in  till  they  had  done 
all  the  work,"  Helen  smiled.  "I  was  only  an 
honorary  addition,  elected  more  to  keep  my  mouth 
shut  than  for  any  other  service  I  could  perform." 

"  Oh,  that  was  it!"  Braider  laughed.  "Well,  they 
certainly  put  the  thing  through.  I've  mixed  up  in 
a  lot  of  hair-raising  scrapes  in  my  time,  but  that 
kidnapping  business  was  the  brightest  idea  ever 
sprung  from  a  man's  head.  This  fellow  D wight  is  a 
corker.  Did  he  tell  you  what  he  went  through  last 
night?" 

"Not  a  thing,"  replied  Helen;  "the  truth  is,  I 
have  an  idea  he  was  trying  to  mislead  me." 

"  Well,  he  certainly  was  if  he  didn't  tell  you  he  had 
the  hardest  fight  for  his  life  and  that  nigger's  that 
ever  a  man  made.  You  noticed  how  hoarse  he  was, 
didn't  you?  That  is  due  to  it.  The  poor  chap 
was  up  all  last  night  and  drove  the  biggest  part  of 
to-day.  I'll  bet,  strong  as  he  is,  he's  as  limber  as  a 
dish-rag." 

"Then  he  really  had  trouble?"  Helen  breathed, 
heavily. 

283 


Mam'    Linda 

"Trouble!  And  he  didn't  mention  it  to  you? 
Young  men  in  this  day  and  time  certainly  play  their 
cards  peculiar.  When  I  was  on  the  carpet  we  boys 
had  a  way  of  making  the  most  to  women  folks  of 
everything  we  did,  and  it  was  generally  the  loudest 
talker  that  won  the  game.  But  here  I  find  this  '  town 
dude,'  as  the  country  people  call  his  sort,  actually 
trying  to  make  you  think  he  went  to  Chattanooga 
last  night  in  a  Pullman  car.  Good  Lord,  it  gives  me 
the  all-overs  to  think  of  it!  I  heard  all  about  it. 
I  met  a  man  who  was  along,  and  he  told  me  the 
whole  thing  from  start  to  finish." 

"What  was  it?"  Helen  asked,  breathlessly. 

"Why,"  answered  Braider,  casting  a  glance  tow- 
ards Dwight's  as  if  fearful  of  being  overheard,  "I 
didn't  know  it,  but  somehow  the  mob  had  got  wind 
of  what  Carson  intended  to  do,  and,  bless  you,  they 
were  waiting  for  him  near  the  State  line  primed  and 
cocked.  The  boy's  enemies  had  fixed  him.  They 
had  worked  the  mob  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  fury 
with  all  sorts  of  tales  against  Pete.  They  had  pro- 
duced men  who  had  really  heard  the  nigger  threaten 
to  harm  Johnson,  and  they  themselves  testified  that 
Carson  was  saving  the  nigger  only  to  capture  black 
voters  as  their  friend  and  benefactor.  The  mob 
was  mad  as  Tucker  at  him  for  tricking  them  the 
other  night,  and  they  certainly  had  it  in  for 
him." 

"They  were  mad  at  Carson  personally,  then?" 
Helen  said. 

"  Were  they  ?  They  were  ready  to  drink  his  blood. 
They  halted  the  buggy,  took  them  both  out,  and  tied 
them." 

284 


Mam'   Linda 

"Tied  Car —  '  Helen's  voice  died  away,  and  she 
stood  staring  at  Braider  unable  to  speak. 

"  Yes,  they  tied  them  both  and  led  them  off  into 
the  woods.  They  then  fastened  Pete  to  a  stump 
and  piled  sticks  and  brush  around  him  and  told 
Carson  they  were  going  to  make  him  see  them  burn 
the  boy  alive  and  when  that  was  done  they  intended 
to  silence  his  tongue  by  shooting  him  dead  in  his 
tracks." 

Helen  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
stifled  a  groan. 

"His  power  of  gab  saved  him,  Miss  Helen," 
Braider  went  on.  "  It  saved  them  both.  It  wasn't 
any  begging,  either;  that  wouldn't  have  gone  with 
that  sort  of  gang.  With  his  hands  and  feet  tied  he 
began  to  talk — that's  what  ails  his  throat  now — and 
the  man  that  confessed  it  to  me  said  such  rapid  fire 
of  words  and  argument  never  before  rolled  from 
human  lips.  He  told  them  he  knew  they  would  kill 
him ;  that  they  were  a  merciless  band  of  desperadoes ; 
but  he  was  going  to  fire  some  truths  at  them  that  they 
would  remember  after  he  was  gone.  I'm  no  talker, 
Miss  Helen.  I  can't  possibly  repeat  what  the  man 
told  me.  He  said  at  first  Carson  couldn't  get  their 
attention,  but  after  awhile,  when  they  were  getting 
ready  to  apply  the  match,  something  in  Dwight's 
voice  caught  their  ear  and  they  paused.  He  talked 
and  talked,  until  a  man  behind  him,  in  open  de- 
fiance, cut  the  cords  that  held  his  hands.  Later  an- 
other cut  his  feet  loose,  and  then  Carson  walked 
boldly  up  to  Pete  and  stood  beside  him,  and  al- 
though a  growl  of  fury  was  still  in  the  air  he  kept 
talking.  The  man  that  told  me  about  it  said  Carson 

285 


Mam'   Linda 

first  picked  up  one  of  the  sticks  around  the  prisoner 
and  hurled  it  from  him  to  emphasize  something  he 
said,  then  another  and  another,  until  the  mob  saw 
him  kicking  the  sticks  away  and  roaring  out  an 
offer  to  fight  the  whole  bunch  single-handed.  Gee 
whiz!  I'd  have  given  ten  years  of  my  life  to  have 
heard  it.  He  hadn't  a  thing  to  say  in  favor  of 
Pete's  general  character;  he  said  the  boy  was  an 
idle,  fun-loving,  shiftless  fellow,  but  he  was  in- 
nocent of  the  crime  charged  against  him  and  he 
should  not  die  like  a  dog.  He  spoke  of  the  fine 
characters  of  Pete's  mother  and  father  and  of  the 
old  woman's  grief,  and  then,  Miss  Helen,  he  said 
something  about  you,  and  the  man  that  told  me 
about  it  said  that  one  thing  did  more  to  soften  and 
quell  the  crowd  than  anything  else." 

"He  said  something  about  me?"  Helen  cried. 
"Me?" 

"Yes;  no  names  was  mentioned,  but  they  knew 
who  he  meant,"  Braider  went  on.  "  Carson  spoke  of 
your  family  and  of  the  close  bond  of  human  sym- 
pathy between  it  and  all  the  blacks  that  had  once 
belonged  to  your  folks,  and  said  that  the  daughter 
of  that  house,  the  most  beautiful  womanly  character 
that  had  ever  blessed  the  South,  was  praying  at  that 
moment  for  the  safety  of  the  prisoner,  and  if  they 
carried  out  their  plans  she  would  shed  tears  of 
sorrow.  'Your  intentions  are  good,'  Carson  said. 
'You  are  all  sincere  men  acting,  as  you  see  it,  in 
the  interests  of  the  women  of  the  South.  Listen 
to  this  gentlewoman's  prayer  uttered  through  my 
mouth  to-night  for  mercy  and  human  justice.' 

"  It  fairly  swept  them  off  their  feet,  Miss  Helen. 
286 


Mam'    Linda 

The  man  that  told  me  about  it  said  he  never  saw  a 
more  thoroughly  shamed  lot  of  men  in  his  life ;  he  said 
they  released  Pete  and  led  the  horses  around  and 
stood  like  mile-posts  with  nothing  to  say  as  Carson 
drove  away.  The  man  that  told  me  said  he'd  bet 
ninety  per  cent,  of  the  gang  would  vote  for  Dwight 
this  fall.  But  I  must  be  going ;  if  that  young  buck 
knew  I'd  been  telling  you  all  this  he'd  give  me  a 
tongue-lashing,  and  I  don't  want  any  of  his  sort  in 
mine." 

Helen  waited  for  about  ten  minutes  alone  on  the 
grass — waited  for  Carson.  When  he  finally  came 
out  and  hurried  towards  her,  he  found  her  with  her 
handkerchief  pressed  over  her  eyes. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Helen?"  he  asked,  in 
sudden  concern. 

She  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  with 
glistening  eyes  she  looked  up  at  him  as  he  stood  pale 
and  disturbed,  the  plaster  still  marking  his  wound 
and  gleaming  in  the  starlight. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  she  asked,  laying  her 
hand  tenderly  on  his  arm,  her  voice  holding  cadences 
of  ineffable  sweetness. 

"  Oh,  Braider's  been  talking  to  you,  I  see!"  Dwight 
said,  with  a  frown  of  displeasure. 

"Why,  didn't  you  tell  me,  Carson?"  she  repeated, 
putting  her  disengaged  hand  on  his  arm  and  raising 
her  appealing  face  till  it  was  close  to  his. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  still  frowning,  and 
then  said,  flushing  under  her  urgent  gaze:  "  Because, 
Helen,  you've  already  seen  and  heard  too  much  of 
this  awful  stuff.  It  really  is  not  fit  for  a  gentle, 
sensitive  girl  like  you." 

287 


Mam'    Linda 

"Oh,  Carson,"  she  cried,  her  suffused  face  held 
even  closer  to  his,  "  you  are  the  dearest,  sweetest  boy 
in  the  world!"  and  she  turned  and  left  him,  left  him 
alone  there  in  his  fatigue,  alone  under  the  starlight 
to  fight  as  he  had  never  fought  before  the  deathless 
yearning  for  her. 


XXXV 

weeks  went  by.  Great  changes 
i  had  come  over  the  temper  of  the  in- 
isurgent  mountain  people.  They  had 
'gradually  come  to  accept  the  rescue 
jof  Pete  Warren  as  a  chance  bit  of  real 
justice  that  was  as  admirable  as  it  was  unusual  and 
heroic.  A  sufficient  number  of  men  had  come 
forward  and  testified  to  Sam  Dudlow's  ante-mortem 
confession  to  exculpate  Carson's  client,  and  some  who 
had  a  leaning  towards  D wight's  cause  politically  were 
hinting,  on  occasion,  that  surely  a  man  who  would 
take  such  a  plucky  stand  for  the  rights  of  a  humble 
negro  would  not  be  a  mere  figure-head  in  the  legis- 
lature of  the  State.  At  all  events,  there  was  one 
man  who  ground  his  teeth  in  secret  rage  over  the 
subtle  turn  of  affairs,  and  that  man  was  Wiggin.  He 
still  busied  himself  sowing  the  seditious  seed  of  race 
hatred  wherever  he  found  receptive  soil,  but,  un- 
fortunately for  his  cause,  in  many  places  where  un- 
bridled fury  had  once  ploughed  the  ground  a  sort 
of  frost  had  fallen.  Most  men  whose  passions  are 
unduly  wrought  undergo  a  certain  sort  of  relapse, 
and  Wiggin  found  many  who  were  not  so  much  in- 
terested in  their  support  of  him  as  formerly  when  an 
open  and  defiant  enemy  was  to  be  defeated. 

Wiggin  was  puzzled  more  about  Jeff  Braider  than 
289 


Mam'    Linda 

any  one  of  his  former  supporters.  Braider  was  too 
good  a  politician  to  admit  that  he  had  in  any  way 
aided  Carson  Dwight  by  a  betrayal  of  the  plot  against 
him,  for  that  was  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  Wiggin 
could  hold  out  to  his  constituents  as  the  act  of  a  man 
disloyal  to  his  official  post,  for,  guilty  or  innocent,  the 
prisoner  should  have  been  held,  as  any  law-abiding 
citizen  would  admit.  As  to  Pete's  guilt  Wiggin 's 
opinion  was  unchanged,  and  he  made  no  bones  of 
saying  so;  he  believed,  so  he  declared,  that  Pete 
was  Dudlow's  accomplice,  and  the  dastardly  man- 
ner of  his  release  was  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  to  any 
white  man's  community. 

As  for  Jeff  Braider,  he  was  in  such  high  feather 
over  the  success  of  his  swerving  towards  the  right 
in  the  nick  of  time  that  he  refrained  from  drink  and 
wore  better  clothing.  He  liked  the  situation.  He  felt, 
now,  that  he  could  serve  his  country,  his  God,  and 
himself  with  a  clear  conscience,  for  Carson  Dwight 
looked  like  a  winner  and  they  had  agreed  to  work 
together. 

Helen  Warren,  after  her  impulsive  leaning  towards 
her  first  sweetheart  that  night  in  the  garden,  had 
permitted  herself  to  undergo  the  keenest  suffering 
which  was  due  to  her  strangely  unsettled  mind.  Was 
she  strictly  honest?  she  asked  herself.  She  had 
openly  encouraged  a  good  man  to  hope  that  she 
would  finally  become  his  wife,  and  the  letters  she 
was  receiving  from  him  daily  were  of  the  tenderest, 
most  appealing  nature,  showing  that  Sanders'  love 
for  her  and  faith  in  her  fair  dealing  were  too  deep- 
ly grounded  to  be  easily  uprooted.  Besides,  as  he 
perhaps  had  the  right  to  do,  the  Augusta  man  had 

290 


Mam'   Linda 

spoken  of  his  hopes  to  his  mother  and  sister,  and 
those  sympathetic  ladies  had  written  Helen  adroit 
letters  which  all  but  plainly  alluded  to  the  "under- 
standing "  as  being  the  forerunner  of  a  most  welcome 
family  event. 

Many  times  had  the  poor  girl  seated  herself  to  re- 
spond to  these  communications,  and  found  herself 
absolutely  unequal  to  the  performance  in  the  delicate 
spirit  that  the  occasion  demanded.  The  window  of 
her  room,  at  which  her  writing-desk  stood,  looked  out 
over  the  garden  at  Dwight's,  and  the  very  spot  where 
she  had  left  Carson  that  memorable  night  was  in 
open  view.  How  could  she  throw  herself  into  any- 
thing, yes  anything  pertaining  to  her  compact  with 
Sanders  while  the  ever-present  thrill  and  ecstasy  of 
that  moment  was  permeating  her?  What  had  it 
really  meant  —  that  ecstatic  yearning  to  kiss  the 
lips  so  close  to  hers,  the  lips  which  had  quivered  in 
dumb  adoration  and  despair  as  he  strove  to  keep 
from  her  ken  the  suffering  he  had  undergone  in  her 
service  ? 

One  day  she  rebelled  against  the  painful,  almost 
morbid,  state  of  indecision  that  was  on  her  and 
firmly  decided  that  there  was  but  one  honorable 
course  to  pursue  and  that  was  in  every  way  to  be 
true  to  her  tacit  promise  to  the  absent  suitor,  and  in 
a  spasm  of  resolution  she  was  about  to  set  herself 
to  the  correspondence  just  mentioned  when  Mam' 
Linda  was  announced.  The  old  woman  had  just 
returned  from  a  visit  to  Chattanooga  to  see  her 
son  and  in  addition  to  news  of  his  well-being  she 
had  many  other  things  to  say.  The  letters  would 
have  to  wait,  Helen  told  herself,  and  her  old  nurse 

291 


Mam'    Linda 

was  admitted.  Linda  remained  two  hours,  and 
Helen  sat  the  while  in  a  veritable  dream  as  the  old 
woman  gave  Pete's  version  of  Carson  Dwight's  con- 
duct before  the  mob  on  the  lonely  mountain  road. 
And  when  Linda  had  gone,  Helen  turned  to  her  desk. 
There  lay  the  white  sheets  fluttering  in  the  summer 
breeze,  mutely  beckoning  her  back  to  stern  reality. 
Helen  stared  at  them  and  then  with  a  little  cry  of 
pain  she  lowered  her  head  to  her  folded  arms  and 
wept — not  for  Sanders  in  his  complacent,  epistolary 
hopefulness,  but  for  the  one  who  had  bravely  borne 
more  than  his  burden  of  pain,  and  upon  whom  she 
had  resolved  to  put  still  more.  Helen  told  herself  that 
it  would  not  be  the  first  time  ideal  happiness  had  not 
been  a  factor  in  a  sensible  marriage.  The  time  would 
come,  in  her  life,  as  it  had  in  the  lives  of  so  many 
other  women,  when  she  would  look  back  on  her 
present  feeling  for  Carson,  and  wonder  how  she  ever 
could  have  fancied — but,  no,  that  would  be  unfair 
to  him,  to  his  wealth  of  spirituality,  to  his  gentleness, 
his  courage  to — to  Carson  just  as  he  was,  to  Carson 
who  must  always,  always  be  the  same,  different 
from  all  living  men.  Yes,  he  was  to  go  out  of  her 
life.  Out  of  her  life — how  strange!  and  yet  it  would 
be  so,  for  she  would  be  the  wife  of — 

She  shuddered  and  sat  staring  at  the  floor. 


XXXVI 

fIGGIN  was  no  insignificant  opponent; 
he  held  weapons  as  powerful  as  fire 
applied  to  inflammable  material.  The 
i  papers  were  filled  with  accounts  of  race 
j  rioting  in  all  parts  of  the  South,  and  in 
his  speeches  on  the  stump,  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  county,  he  kept  his  particular  version 
of  the  bloody  happenings  well  before  his  hearers. 

"  This  is  a  white  man's  country,"  was  the  key-note 
of  all  his  hot  tirades,  "  and  the  white  man  is  bound  to 
rule." 

He  accomplished  one  master-stroke.  There  was 
to  be  a  considerable  gathering  of  the  Confederate/ 
veterans  at  an  annual  picnic  at  Shell  Valley,  a  few 
miles  from  Springtown,  and  by  no  mean  diplomacy 
Wiggin  had,  by  shrewdly  ingratiating  himself  into 
the  good  graces  of  the  committee  of  arrangements, 
managed  to  have  himself  invited  as  the  only  orator 
of  the  occasion.  He  meant  to  make  it  the  greatest 
day  of  the  campaign,  and  in  some  respects,  as  will 
be  seen,  he  did. 

The  farmers  came  from  all  parts  of  the  county  in 
their  best  attire,  in  their  best  turnouts,  from  plain, 
springless  road -wagons  to  glittering  buggies.  The 
wood  which  stretched  on  all  sides  from  the  spring 
was  filled  with  vehicles,  horses,  mules,  and  even  oxen. 

293 


Mam'    Linda 

The  grizzled  veterans,  battered  as  much  by  post- 
bellum  hardship  and  toil  as  by  war,  came  with  their 
wives,  sons,  and  daughters,  and  brought  baskets  to 
the  rich  contents  of  which  any  man  was  welcome. 
A  crude  platform  had  been  erected  near  the  spring 
under  the  shadiest  trees,  and  upon  this  the  speaker 
of  the  day  was  to  hold  forth.  Behind  the  little 
impromptu  table  holding  a  glass  pitcher  of  water 
and  a  tumbler,  erected  for  Wiggin's  special  benefit, 
were  a  number  of  benches  made  of  undressed  boards. 
And  to  these  seats  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the 
leading  citizens  were  invited. 

Jabe  Parsons,  being  a  man  of  importance  as  a 
land-owner  and  an  old  soldier,  was  instructed  on  his 
arrival  in  his  rickety  buggy  to  escort  his  wife,  who  was 
gorgeously  arrayed  in  a  new  green-and-red  checked 
gingham  gown  with  a  sun-bonnet  to  match,  to  the 
front  seat  on  the  platform,  and  he  obeyed  with  a 
sort  of  ploughman's  swagger  that  indicated  his  pride 
in  the  possession  of  a  wife  so  widely  known  and  re- 
spected. Indeed,  no  woman  who  had  arrived — and 
she  had  come  later  than  the  rest — had  caused  such 
a  ripple  of  comment.  Always  liked  for  her  firmness 
in  any  stand  she  took  in  matters  of  church  or  social 
life,  since  her  Amazonian  rescue  of  Pete  Warren 
from  the  very  halter  of  death  she  was  even  more 
popular.  The  women  of  the  county  had  not  given 
much  thought  to  the  actual  guilt  or  innocence  of  the 
boy,  but  they  wanted  Mrs.  Parsons — as  a  specimen 
of  their  undervalued  sex  —  to  be  right  in  that  in- 
stance, as  she  had  always  been  about  every  other 
matter  upon  which  she  had  stood  flat-footed,  and  so 
they  all  but  cheered  her  on  this  first  public  ap- 

294 


Mam'    Linda 

pearance  after  conduct  which  had  been  so  widely 
talked  about. 

Really,  if  Wiggin  could  have  had  the  reception 
Mrs.  Parsons  received  from  beaming  eyes  and  faces 
he  would  have  felt  that  his  star,  which  had  been 
rather  below  the  horizon  than  above  of  late,  had  be- 
come a  fixed  ornament  in  the  political  heavens. 
But  Wiggin  gave  no  thought  to  her,  and  there's 
where  he  made  a  mistake.  Women  were  beneath 
the  notice  of  serious  men,  Wiggin  thought,  except  as 
a  means  of  controlling  a  husband's  vote,  and  there 
he  made  another  mistake.  It  would  have  been  well 
for  him  if  he  could  have  noticed  the  fires  of  contempt 
in  Mrs.  Parsons'  eyes  as  he  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  bowing  right  and  left,  and  took  his  seat  in  the 
only  chair  on  the  platform,  and  proceeded,  of  course, 
to  take  a  drink  of  water. 

A  country  parson,  while  the  multitude  sat  upon 
the  grass,  crude  benches,  buggy-cushions,  or  heaps 
of  pine  needles,  opened  the  ceremonies  with  a  long- 
winded  prayer,  composed  of  selections  from  all  the 
prayers  he  knew  by  rote  and  ending  with  something 
resembling  a  benediction.  Then  a  young  lady  was 
asked  to  recite  a  dramatic  poem  relating  to  the  "Lost  / 
Cause,"  and  she  did  it  with  such  telling  effect  that  the  ( 
gray  heads  of  the  old  soldiers  sank  to  their  chests,  and, 
in  memory  of  camp-fire,  battle-field,  and  comrades 
left  in  unmarked  graves,  the  tears  flowed  down  fur- 
rowed cheeks  and  strong  forms  were  shaken  by  sobs. 

It  was  into  this  holy  silence  that  the  unmoved, 
preoccupied  Wiggin  rose  to  cast  his  burning  brand. 
Through  curtains  of  tears  he  laid  his  fuse  to  hidden 
magazines  of  powder. 

ao  295 


Mam'    Linda 

"I  believe  in  getting  right  down  to  business,"  he 
began,  in  a  crisp,  rasping  voice  that  reached  well  to 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  "There's  nothing  to- 
day that  is  as  important  to  you,  fellow-citizens,  as 
the  correct  use  of  the  ballot.  I  am  a  candidate  for 
your  votes.  I  mean  to  represent  you  in  the  next 
legislature,  and  I  don't  intend  to  be  foiled  by  the 
tricks,  lies,  and  underhand  work  of  a  gang  of  stuck- 
up  town  men  who  laugh  at  your  honest  appearance 
and  homely  ways.  God  knows  you  are  the  salt  of 
the  earth,  and  when  I  hear  men  of  that  stamp  making 
fun  of  you  behind  your  backs  it  makes  me  mad. 
My  father  was  a  mountain  farmer,  and  when  men 
throw  dirt  on  folks  of  your  sort  they  throw  it  into 
the  tenderest  recesses  of  my  being  and  it  smarts  like 
salt  in  a  fresh  cut." 

There  was  applause  from  a  group  in  the  edge  of 
the  crowd  led  by  long,  tall  Dan  Willis,  and  it  spread 
uncertainly  to  other  parts  of  the  gathering. 

"  Hit  'em,  blast  'em,  hit  'em,  Wiggin,"  a  man  near 
Willis  shouted;  "hit  'em!" 

"  You  bet  I'll  hit  'em,  brother,"  Wiggin  panted,  as 
he  rolled  up  his  coat-sleeve  and  pulled  down  his 
rumpled  cuff.  "That's  what  I'm  here  for.  I'm 
here,  by  the  holy  stars,  to  show  you  people  a  few 
things  which  have  been  overlooked.  I  intend  to  go 
into  the  history  of  this  case.  I  want  you  all  to  look 
back  a  few  weeks.  A  gang  of  worthless  negroes  in 
Darley  became  so  bad  and  openly  defiant  in  their 
rowdyism  that  they  were  literally  running  the  town, 
t  Whenever  they  would  be  hauled  up  before  the  mayor 
for  disgraceful  conduct  some  old  slave-holder,  who 
used  to  own  them  or  their  daddies,  would  come  up 

296 


Mam'    Linda 

and  pay  their  fine  and  they'd  be  turned  loose  again. 
The  black  scamps  became  so  spoiled  that  whenever 
country  people  would  come  in  town  they  would 
laugh  at  them,  imitate  their  talk,  call  them  po'  white 
trash,  and  push  them  off  the  sidewalks.  Some  of 
you  mountain  men  stood  it,  God  bless  your  Cau- 
casian bones,  just  as  long  as  human  endurance  would 
let  you,  and  then  you  formed  a  secret  gang  that  went 
into  Darley  one  night  and  pulled  their  dives  and  gave 
them  a  lashing  on  their  bare  backs  that  brought 
about  a  reform.  As  every  Darley  man  will  tell  you, 
it  purified  the  very  air.  The  negroes  were  put  to 
work,  and  they  didn't  hover  like  swarms  of  buzzards 
round  the  public  square.  All  of  which  showed 
plainly  that  the  cowhide  was  the  only  corrective 
that  the  niggers  knew  about  or  cared  a  cent  for. 
Trying  them  in  a  mayor's  court  was  elevating  them 
to  the  level  of  a  white  man,  and  they  liked  it." 

"You  bet!"  cried  out  Dan  Willis,  and  a  laugh 
went  round  which  spurred  Wiggin  to  further  flights 
of  vituperation. 

"Now  to  my  next  step  in  this  history,"  he  thun- 
dered. "  In  that  gang  of  soundly  thrashed  scamps 
there  were  two  who  were  chums,  as  I  could  prove  by 
sworn  testimony.  Those  black  fiends  refused  to 
submit  passively.  They  skulked  around  making 
sullen  threats  and  trying  to  incite  race  riot.  Failing 
in  this,  what  did  they  do?  One  of  them,  being 
hand  in  glove  with  Carson  Dwight,  who  says  he's 
going  to  beat  me  in  this  election,  applied  to  him  for 
a  job  and  was  sent  out  to  Dwight's  farm  near  to  that 
of  Abe  Johnson,  who  is  thought — by  some — to  have 
been  the  leader  of  the  thrashing  delegation.  That 

297 


Mam'    Linda 

nigger,  Pete  Warren,  was  promptly  joined  by  his 
black  pal,  and  Johnson  and  his  wife,  one  of  the  best 
women  in  this  State,  were  foully  murdered  in  the 
dead  hours  of  the  night  as  they  lay  sleeping  in  their 
beds.  Who  did  it?  I  know  who  did  it.  You 
know  who  did  it.  Fellow-citizens,  those  two  niggers, 
with  their  backs  still  smarting  and  their  tongues 
still  wagging,  were  the  devils  who  did  the  deed." 

Low  muttering  was  heard  throughout  the  crowd 
as  men  turned  to  one  another  to  make  comment  on 
the  statement.  In  its  incipiency  it  meant  no  more, 
perhaps,  than  that  reason,  hard  driven  by  rising 
emotion,  was  honestly  striving  to  keep  the  equitable 
poise  which  had  recently  governed  it,  but  it  sounded 
to  the  thoughtless,  inflammable  element  like  sullen, 
swelling  acquiescence  to  the  bitter  charges,  and  they 
took  it  up.  Wiggin  paused,  drank  from  the  tumbler, 
and  watched  his  flashing  fuse  in  its  sinuous  course 
through  the  assemblage. 

Mrs.  Parsons  was  near  the  edge  of  the  platform, 
and  Pole  Baker,  rising  from  the  grass  near  by,  where 
he  had  been  coolly  whittling  a  stick,  stealthily  ap- 
proached her. 

"Great  goodness,  Mrs.  Parsons,"  he  whispered  in 
her  ear,  "  that  skunk  is  cutting  a  wide  swath  to-day, 
sure!  He  could  git  up  a  lynching-bee  right  here  in 
five  minutes  if  he  had  any  sort  of  material.  The 
only  thing  of  the  right  color  is  that  old  woman  sell- 
ing ginger -cakes  and  cider  at  the  spring.  Don't 
you  think  I'd  better  slip  down  and  tell  her  to  go 
home?" 

"  It  might  save  the  old  thing's  neck,"  Mrs.  Parsons 
answered,  in  the  same  half -amused  spirit.  "If  he 


Mam*    Linda 

keeps  on  I  don't  think  I'll  be  able  to  hold  my  seat. 
Why  don't  you  say  something?" 

"  Me  ?  Oh,  I  ain't  no  public  speaker,  Mrs.  Parsons. 
That  oily  gab  of  Wiggin's  would  twist  me  into  a 
hundred  knots,  and  Carson  Dwight  would  cuss  me 
out  for  making  matters  worse.  I  never  feel  like 
talking  unless  I'm  drunk,  and  then  I'm  tongue-tied." 

"Well,  I  don't  git  drunk  and  I  don't  git  tongue- 
tied!"  grunted  Mrs.  Parsons;  "and  I  tell  you,  Pole,  if 
that  fool  keeps  on  I'll  either  talk  or  bust." 

"Well,  don't  bust — we  need  women  like  you  right 
now,"  Baker  smiled.  "  But  the  truth  is,  if  some'n' 
ain't  done  for  our  side  this  thing  will  sweep  Carson 
Dwight  clean  out  of  the  field." 

"Yes,  because  men  are  born  fools,"  retorted  the 
woman.  "  Look  at  their  faces,  the  last  one  of  them 
right  now  is  mad  enough  to  lynch  a  nigger  baby,  and 
a  gal  baby  at  that." 

With  a  laugh,  Pole  went  back  to  his  seat  on  the 
grass  for  Wiggin  was  thundering  again. 

"What  happened  next?"  he  demanded,  bending 
over  his  table,  a  hand  on  each  end  of  it,  his  keen,  alert 
eyes  sweeping  like  twin  search-lights  into  the  deeps 
of  the  countenances  turned  to  him.  "  Why,  just  this 
and  nothing  more.  Knowing  that  the  jack-leg  law- 
yers of  that  measly  town  would  clog  the  wheels  of 
justice  for  their  puny  fees,  and  hold  those  fiends  over 
for  other  hellishness,  some  of  you  rose  and  took  the 
law  into  your  own  hands.  You  jerked  one  to  glory 
as  quick  as  you  laid  hands  on  him,  and  part  of  you 
were  hard  on  the  track  of  his  mate,  when  my  honor- 
able opponent,  not  wanting  to  lose  the  fee  he  was  to 
get  for  pulling  the  case  through,  met  the  mob  and 

299 


Mam'    Linda 

managed,  by  a  lot  of  grand-stand  playing  and  solemn 
promises  to  see  that  the  negro  was  legally  tried,  to 
put  him  in  jail. 

"Those  promises  he  kept  like  the  honorable 
gentleman  he  is,"  Wiggin  snorted,  tossing  back  his 
hair  in  white  rage  and  rolling  up  his  sleeves  again. 
"You  know  how  he  kept  his  word  to  the  public. 
He  organized  a  secret  band  of  his  dirty  associates  in 
town,  dressed  'em  up  like  White  Caps,  and  they  went 
to  the  jail  and  took  the  nigger  out.  Then  they  hid 
him  in  a  cellar  of  a  store  where  you  all  buy  supplies, 
out  of  the  goodness  of  your  patriotic  souls,  and  later 
sent  him  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes  to  Chattanooga, 
where  he  is  now  engaged  in  the  same  sort  of  life  that 
he  was  here,  an  idle,  good-for-nothing,  lazy  tramp, 
who  says  he's  as  good  as  any  white  man  that  ever 
wore  shoe-leather  and  no  doubt  thinks  he  will  some 
\  day  marry  a  white  woman." 

The  rising  storm  burst,  and  Wiggin  stood  above  it 
calmly  viewing  it  in  all  its  subdued  and  open  fury. 
Shouts  of  rage  rent  the  air.  Men  with  blanched 
faces,  men  with  gleaming  eyes,  rose  from  their  seats, 
as  if  a  call  to  their  manhood  for  instantaneous  ac- 
tion had  been  sounded,  and  walked  about  mutter- 
ing threats,  grinding  their  teeth,  and  clinching  their 
brawny  hands. 

"Ah,  ha!"  Wiggin  bellowed;  "I  see  you  catch  my 
idea.  But  I'm  not  through.  Just  wait!" 

He  paused  to  drink  again,  and  Pole  Baker,  with  a 
grave  look  in  his  honest  eye  approached  the  sculpt- 
uresque shape  of  Mrs.  Parsons  and  nudged  her. 

"Did  you  ever  in  yore  life?"  he  said;  but  staring 
him  in  the  eyes  steadily,  the  woman  seemed  not  to 

300 


Mam'    Linda 

hear  what  he  was  saying.  Her  lower  lip  was  twitch- 
ing and  there  was  an  expression  of  settled  determina- 
tion in  her  eyes.  Baker,  wondering,  moved  back  to 
his  place,  for  Wiggin  had  levelled  his  guns  again. 

"  And  the  man  that  was  at  the  head  of  it,  what  is 
he  doing  right  now?  Why  he's  leaning  back  in  his 
rocking-chair  in  his  law-office  drawing  a  fat  pension 
from  his  rich  old  daddy,  taking  in  big  fees  for  such 
legal  work  as  that,  and  fairly  splitting  his  sides  laugh- 
ing at  you  folks,  who  he  calls  a  lot  of  sap-headed  hill- 
billies, fit  only  for  hopping  clods  and  feeding  hogs  on 
swill  and  pussley  weeds.  Oh,  that  was  a  picnic — 
that  trick  he  and  those  town  rowdies  put  up  on 
you!  It  was  a  gentle  rebuke  to  you,  and  when  he 
gets  to  the  legislature  he  says  he — 

"Legislature  be  damned!"  Dan  Willis  roared,  and 
the  crowd  took  up  his  cry. 

"Oh  yes,  you'll  vote  him  in,"  Wiggin  went  on, 
with  a  vast  air  of  mock  depression  and  reproach; 
"  you  think  you  won't  now,  but  when  he  gets  up  and 
tells  his  side  of  it  with  a  forced  tear  or  two,  your 
women  folks  will  say,  '  Poor  boy!'  and  tell  you  what 
to  do  at  the  polls." 

Comprehensive  applause  greeted  the  speaker  as  he 
sat  down.  Hats  were  thrown  in  the  air  and  Dan 
Willis  organized  and  gave  three  resounding  cheers. 


XXXVII 

?F  the  audience  was  surprised  at  what 
next  happened,  what  may  be  said  of 
the  astounded  candidate  when  he  saw 
the  powerful  form  of  Mrs.  Parsons  rise 

from  her  seat  near  nim  and  calmly 
stride  with  the  tread  of  an  angry  man  to  the  speaker's 
stand  and  take  off  her  curtained  bonnet  and  begin 
to  wave  it  up  and  down  to  indicate  that  she  wanted 
them  to  keep  their  places  ? 

"  I  never  made  a  speech  in  my  life,"  she  gulped — 
"  that  is,  not  outside  of  an  experience  meetin'.  But, 
people,  ef  this  ain't  an  experience  meeting  I  never 
went  to  one.  Ef  the  Lord  God  had  told  me  Hisse'f  in 
a  blazonin'  voice  from  heaven  that  any  human  bein' 
could  take  such  a  swivelled-up,  contemptible  shape 
as  the  man  that's  yelled  at  you  like  a  sick  calf  to-day, 
I  never  would  have  believed  it.  I've  got  a  right  to 
be  heard.  I  couldn't  set  still.  It  would  give  me  St. 
Vitus's  dance  to  try  it  ten  minutes  longer.  I've  got 
a  right  to  talk,  because,  friends  and  neighbors,  this 
contemptible  creature  has,  in  a  roundabout  way,  ac- 
cused me  of  law-breaking,  an' — " 

"Why,  madam!"  Wiggin  gasped,  as  he  half  rose 
and  stared  around  in  utter  bewilderment.  "  I  don't 
even  know  you!  I  never  laid  eyes  on  you  before 
this  minute — " 

302 


Mam'    Linda 

"Well,  take  a  good  look  at  me  now!"  Mrs.  Parsons 
hurled  at  him,  "for  I'm  the  woman  that  helped  Pete 
Warren  git  away  from  the  sheriff,  when  your  sort 
were  after  the  poor,  silly  nigger  to  lynch  him  for  a 
crime  he  had  nothin'  to  do  with.  If  you  are  right  in 
all  your  empty  tirade  this  morning,  I'm  a  woman 
unfit  for  the  community  I  live  in,  and  if  I  have  to 
share  that  honor  with  a  man  of  your  stamp,  I'll 
lynch  myself  on  the  first  tree  I  come  to." 

She  turned  from  the  astounded,  suddenly  crest- 
fallen speaker  to  the  open-mouthed  audience. 

"Listen  to  me,  men,  women,  and  children!"  she 
thundered,  in  a  voice  that  was  as  steady  and  clear  in 
resonance  as  a  bell.  "  If  there  was  ever  a  crafty, 
spider-like  politician  on  earth  you  have  listened  to 
him  spout  to-day.  He's  picked  out  the  one  big  sore- 
spot  in  your  kind  natures  and  he's  punched  it,  and 
jabbed  it,  and  lacerated  it  with  every  sort  of  thorn 
he  could  stick  into  it,  till  he  gained  his  aim  in  makin' 
you  one  and  all  so  blind  with  rage  at  the  black  race 
that  you  are  about  to  overlook  the  good  in  yore  own. 

"There  are  two  sides  to  this  matter,  and  you 
would  be  pore  excuses  for  men  if  you  jest  looked  at 
one  side  of  it.  Carson  Dwight  is  the  other  candidate, 
and  I  don't  know  but  one  thing  agin  his  character, 
and  that  is  that  he  ever  allowed  his  name  to  be  put 
up  along  with  this  man's.  It's  a  funny  sort  of  race, 
anyway — run  by  a  greyhound  and  a  jack-rabbit." 

A  ripple  of  amusement  passed  over  many  faces, 
and  there  were  several  open  laughs  over  Wiggin's 
evident  discomfiture.  He  started  to  rise,  but  voices 
from  all  parts  of  the  gathering  cried  out:  "  Sit  down, 
Wiggin!  Sit  down,  it  ain't  yore  time!" 

3°3 


Mam*    Linda 

"No,  it  hain't  his  time,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  un- 
rolling her  bonnet  like  a  switchman's  flag  and  waving 
it  to  and  fro.  "I  started  to  tell  you  about  Carson 
Dwight.  He  can't  help  bein'  born  in  a  rich  family 
any  more'n  I  could  in  a  pore  one,  but  I'm  here  to  tell 
you  that  since  I  had  the  moral  backbone  to  aid  that 
nigger  to  git  away  I've  thanked  God  a  thousand 
times  that  I  did  that  much  to  help  genuine  justice 
along.  I  could  listen  to  forty  million  men  like  this 
candidate  expound  his  views  and  it  wouldn't  alter 
me  one  smidgen  in  the  belief  that  Carson  Dwight 
has  acted  only  as  a  true  Christian  would.  He  knew 
that  nigger.  He  had  known  him,  I'm  told,  from 
childhood  up.  He  knew  the  sort  of  black  stock 
the  boy  sprung  from,  an'  the  white  family  he  was 
trained  in,  an'  he  simply  didn't  believe  he  was 
guilty  of  that  crime.  Believing  that,  thar  wasn't 
but  one  honest  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  that  was  to 
fight  for  the  pore  thing's  rights.  He  knew  that 
most  of  the  racket  agin  the  boy  was  got  up  by 
t'other  candidate,  and  he  set  about  to  save  the 
pore,  beggin'  darky's  neck  from  the  halter  or  his 
body  from  the  burning  brush-heap.  Did  he  do 
it  at  a  sacrifice?  Huh,  answer  me  that!  Where 
did  you  ever  see  another  politician  on  the  eve  of 
his  election  that  would  take  up  such  a'  issue  as 
that,  infuriating  nearly  every  person  who  had  prom- 
ised to  vote  for  him?  Where  will  you  find  a  young 
man  with  enough  stamina  to  stand  on  a  horse-block 
over  the  heads  of  hundreds  of  howling  demons,  and 
with  one  wound  from  a  pistol  on  his  brow,  darin'  'em 
to  shoot  ag'in  and  holdin'  on  like  a  bull-dog  to  the 
pore  cowerin'  wreck  at  his  feet?" 

304 


Mam'    Linda 

There  was  applause,  slight  at  first,  but  increasing. 
There  were,  too,  under  Mrs.  Parson's  eye  many  soft- 
ening faces,  and  into  them  she  continued  to  throw 
her  heart-felt  appeal. 

"You've  been  told  this  morning  that  Carson 
D wight  makes  fun  of  us  country  people.  I'll  admit 
I  saw  him  do  it  once,  but  it  was  only  once.  He  made 
fun  of  a  mountain  chap  over  at  Barley  one  circus 
day.  The  fellow  had  insulted  a  nice  country  gal,  and 
Carson  Dwight  made  a  lot  of  fun  of  him.  He  ham- 
mered the  dirty  scamp's  face  till  it  looked  like  a  ripe 
tomato  that  the  rats  had  been  gnawin'." 

At  this  point  there  was  laughter  loud  and  prolonged. 

"  Now,  listen,"  the  speaker  went  on.  "  I  want  you 
to  hear  something,  and  I  don't  want  you  ever  to 
forget  it.  I  got  it  straight  from  a  truthful  man  who 
was  there.  The  night  you  mountain  men  gathered 
from  all  sides  like  the  rising  of  the  dead  on  Judg- 
ment Day,  and  got  ready  to  march  to  Darley  to  take 
that  boy  out  of  jail,  the  news  reached  Carson  Dwight 
just  an  hour  or  so  before  the  appointed  time.  He 
got  a  few  friends  together  and  told  them  if  they  cared 
for  him  to  make  one  more  effort  to  stop  the  trouble. 

"Gentlemen,  to  some  extent  they  was  like  you. 
They  wasn't — I'm  told — much  interested  in  the  fate 
of  that  nigger,  one  way  or  another,  and  so  they  sat 
thar  in  judgment  over  Carson  Dwight,  and  tried  to 
argue  'im  down.  I'm  told  by  a  respectable  man  who 
was  thar"  (and  here  Pole  Baker  lowered  his  head 
till  his  eyes  were  out  of  sight  and  continued  to 
whittle  his  stick)  "that  nothin'  feazed  'im.  Pity 
was  in  his  big,  boyish  heart,  and  it  looked  out  of  his 
eyes  and  clogged  up  his  voice.  They  told  him  it 

305 


Mam'    Linda 

meant  ruination  to  all  his  political  hopes,  and  that 
it  would  turn  his  daddy  against  him  for  good  and 
all.  But  he  said  he  didn't  care.  They  held  out 
agin  him  a  long  time,  and  then  one  thing  he  said  won 
'em  over — one  thing.  Kin  you  imagine  what  that 
was,  friends  and  neighbors?  It  was  this:  Carson 
Dwight  said  he  loved  you  mountain  men  with  all  his 
heart ;  he  said  no  better  or  braver  blood  ever  flowed 
in  human  veins  than  yours;  he  said  he  knew  you 
thought  you  was  right,  but  that  you  hadn't  had  the 
chance  to  discover  what  he  had  found  out,  and  that 
was  that  Pete  Warren  was  innocent  and  as  harmless 
as  a  baby,  and  that — now,  listen! — that  he  knew  the 
time  would  come  when  you'd  be  convinced  of  the 
truth  and  carry  regret  for  your  haste  to  your  graves. 
'It  is  because,'  he  told  them,  'I  want  to  save  men 
that  I  love  from  remorse  and  sorrow  that  I  am  in  for 
this  thing!'  Fellow-citizens,  that  shot  went  home. 
Those  worthless  'town  dudes,'  as  they  was  called 
just  now,  saved  you  from  committing  a  crime  against 
yotirselves  an'  God  on  high.  Did  any  human  bein' 
ever  see  a  better  illustration  than  that  of  the  duty 
of  enlightened  folks  to-day — the  duty  of  them  who, 
with  divine  sight,  see  great  truths — to  lead  others 
in  the  right  direction?  As  God  Almighty  smiles 
over  you  to-day  in  this  broad  sunlight,  that  gang  in 
that  store,  headed  by  a  new  Joseph,  was  an'  are  the 
truest  and  best  friends  you  ever  had." 

There  was  no  open  applause,  but  Mrs.  Parsons 
saw  something  in  the  melting  faces  before  her  that 
was  infinitely  more  encouraging,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  and  leaning  slightly  on  the  table,  she 
went  on: 

306 


Mam'    Linda 

"  Before  I  set  down,  I  want  to  say  one  word  about 
this  big  race  question,  anyway.  I'm  just  a  plain 
woman,  but  I  read  papers  an'  I've  thought  about  it 
a  lot.  We  hear  some  white  folks  say  that  the 
education  the  niggers  are  now  gettin'  is  the  prime 
cause  of  so  much  crime  amongst  the  blacks — they 
say  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  is  always  the  un- 
educated niggers  that  commit  the  rascality.  No, 
my  friends,  it  ain't  education  that's  the  cause,  it  is 
the  lack  of  it.  Education  ain't  just  what  is  learnt  in 
school-books.  It  is  anything  that  makes  folks 
higher  an'  better.  Before  the  war  niggers  was  better 
educated,  for  they  had  the  education  that  come 
from  bein'  close  to  the  white  race  an'  profitin'  by 
the'r  example.  After  slavery  was  abolished  the 
poor,  simple  numskulls,  great,  overgrown,  fun-lovin' 
children,  was  turned  loose  without  advice  or  guidin' 
hand,  an'  the  worst  part  of  'em  went  downhill.  Sla- 
very was  education,  and  I'll  bet  the  Lord  had  a 
hand  in  it,  for  it  has  lifted  a  race  from  the  jungles  of 
Africa  to  a  civilized  land  full  of  free  schools.  So  I 
say,  teach  'em  the  difference  between  right  an' 
wrong,  an'  then  let  'em  work  out  their  own  sal- 
vation. 

"Who  in  the  name  of  common-sense  is  to  do  this 
if  it  ain't  you  of  the  superior  race  ?  But !  wait  a 
minute,  think!  How  can  you  possibly  teach  'em 
what  law  an*  order  is  without  knowin'  a  little  about 
it  yourselves?  How  can  you  learn  a  nigger  what 
justice  means  when  he  sees  his  brother,  son,  or  father, 
shot  dead  in  his  tracks  or  hung,  like  a  scare-crow 
to  the  limb  of  a  tree  because  some  lower  grade  black 
man  a.  hundred  miles  off  has  committed  a  dastardly 

307 


Mam'    Linda 

deed?  No  sensible  white  man  ever  thought  of 
puttin'  the  two  races  on  equality.  The  duty  of  the 
white  blood  is  always  to  keep  ahead  of  the  black, 
and  it  will.  This  candidate  openly  declares  that  the 
time  is  coming  when  the  negroes  will  overpower  the 
whites.  A  man  that  has  as  poor  an  opinion  of  his 
own  race  as  that  ought  to  be  kicked  out  of  it.  Now  I 
can't  vote,  but  I  want  every  woman  in  this  crowd 
that  believes  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about  to  see 
that  her  brother,  father,  or  husband  votes  for  a 
member  of  the  legislature  that  knows  what  law  an' 
order  means,  an'  not  for  a  red  -  handed  anarchist 
who  would  lay  this  country  in  ruins  to  gain  his  own 
puny  aims.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

When  she  had  finished  there  was  still  no  applause. 
They  had  learned  that  it  was  unseemly  to  make  a 
demonstration  at  church,  when  deeply  moved  by  a 
sermon,  and  they  had  heard  something  to-day  that 
had  lifted  them  as  high  under  her  sway  as  they  had 
sunken  low  under  Wiggin's.  The  formal  part  of  the 
exercises  was  over,  and  they  proceeded  to  spread 
out  the  contents  of  their  baskets.  Wiggin,  after  his 
successful  ascent,  had  fallen  with  something  like  a 
thud.  He  saw  Mrs.  Parsons  helped  from  the  plat- 
form by  her  proudly  flushing  husband  and  instantly 
surrounded  by  people  anxious  to  offer  congratula- 
tions. Wiggin  shuddered  for  he  stood  quite  alone. 
Those  who  were  in  sympathy  with  him  seemed 
afraid  to  openly  signify  it.  Even  Dan  Willis  lurked 
back  under  the  trees,  his  face  flushed  with  liquor 
and  inward  rage. 

Pole  Baker,  however,  was  more  thoughtful  of  the 
candidate's  comfort.  With  a  queer  twinkle  of  amuse- 

308 


Mam'   Linda 

ment  in  his  eyes,  and  polishing,  with  the  dexterity  of 
a  carver  of  cherry-stones,  his  little  stick,  he  ap- 
proached the  candidate. 

"Say,  Wiggin,"  he  drawled  out,  "I  want  to  ax 
you  a  question." 

"  All  right,  Baker,  what  is  it  ?"  the  candidate  asked, 
absent-mindedly. 

"Don't  you  remember  tellin'  me,"  Pole  began, 
"  that  you  never  had  in  all  yore  life  met  a  man  that 
made  better  an'  truer  predictions  about  things  to 
come  than  I  did?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  Baker — yes,  I  remember  now," 
answered  Wiggin.  "You  do  seem  to  have  a  head 
that  way.  Some  men  have  more  than  others,  a 
sort  of  foresight  or  intuition." 

Pole  chuckled.  "You  remember  I  said  Teddy 
Rusefelt  would  whip  the  socks  off  of  Parker.  I'm 
a  Democrat  an'  always  will  be,  but  I  kin  see  things 
that  are  goin'  to  be  agin  me  as  plain  as  them  I'm 
prayin'  for.  Well,  you  remember  I  was  called  a 
traitor  jest  beca'se  I  told  what  was  comin',  but  I  hit 
the  nail  on  the  head,  didn't  I?" 

"Yes,  you  did,"  admitted  the  downcast  candi- 
date. 

"  An'  I  was  right  about  the  majority  Towns  would 
git  for  the  State  senate,  Mayhew  for  solicitor,  an' 
Tim  Bloodgood  for  the  last  legislature." 

"Yes,  you  were,  I  remember  that,"  said  Wiggin. 

"I  hit  it  on  the  Governor's  race  to  a  gnat's  heel, 
too,  didn't  I?"  Pole  pursued,  his  keen  eyes  fixed  on 
those  of  the  man  before  him. 

"Yes,  you  did,"  admitted  Wiggin;  "you  really 
seem  to  have  remarkable  foresight." 

309 


Mam'    Linda 

"Well,  then,"  said  Baker,  "I've  got  a  prediction 
to  make  about  your  race  agin  Carson  Dwight." 

"Oh,  you  have!"  exclaimed  Wiggin,  now  all  at- 
tention. 

"Yes,  and  this  time  I'd  bet  my  two  arms  and  the 
first  joint  of  my  right  leg  agin  a  pinch  o'  snuff  that 
Carson  '11  beat  you  worse  than  a  man  was  ever 
whipped  in  his  life." 

"You  think  so,  Baker?"  Wiggin  was  trying  to 
sneer. 

"I  don't  think  anything  about  it;  I  know  it," 
said  Pole. 

Wiggin  stared  at  the  ground  a  moment  aimlessly, 
then  he  said,  doggedly,  and  yet  with  an  evident 
desire  for  information  at  any  sort  of  fountain-head: 

"What  makes  you  think  I'm  beat,  Baker?" 

"  Because  you've  showed  you  hain't  no  politician, 
an'  you've  got  a  born  one  to  beat.  For  one  thing, 
you've  stirred  up  a  hornet's  nest.  Women,  when 
they  set  the'r  heads  agin  a 'body,  are  devils  in  petti- 
coats, an'  the  one  that  presided  this  mornin'  has  got 
more  influence  than  forty  men.  Before  you  are  a 
day  older  every  man  who  has  a  wife,  mother,  or 
sweetheart  will  be  afraid  to  speak  to  you  in  broad 
daylight.  Then  ag'in,  no  candidate  ever  won  a  race 
on  a  platform  of  pure  hate  an'  revenge.  You  made 
that  crowd  as  mad  as  hell  just  now,  while  you  was 
belchin'  out  that  stuff,  but  as  soon  as  Sister  Parsons 
showed  'em  what  a  friend  of  the'rs  Dwight  was  they 
melted  to  him  like  thin  snow  after  a  rain." 


XXXVIII 


NE    morning,    three  days   later,   Pole 
Baker  slouched  down  the  street  from 
the  wagon-yard  and  went  into  Garner 
&  D wight's  office,  finding  Garner  at  his 
desk.     The   mountaineer   looked   cau- 
tiously about  the  room  and  asked,  in  a  guarded  tone: 
"Is  Carson  anywhars  about?" 
"  Not  down  yet,"  Garner  said.     "  His  mother  was 
not  so  well  last  night,  and  it  may  be  that  he  had  to 
sit  up  with  her  and  has  overslept  himself." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  he  ain't  here,"  Baker  said,  "for  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  about  him  sorter  in  private." 
"Anything  gone  wrong?"  Garner  asked,  looking 
up  curiously. 

"Well,  not  yet,  Bill,  but  I  believe  in  takin'  the 
bull  by  the  horns  before  he  takes  you  in  the  stomach. 
I've  been  powerful  af eared  for  some  time  that  Car- 
son and  Dan  Willis  would  run  together,  and  I  dread 
it  now  more  than  ever.  In  the  first  place,  I  don't 
like  the  look  in  Carson's  eye.  He  knows  that  devil 
has  been  on  his  track,  and  it  has  worked  him  up 
powerful;  besides,  Willis  is  more  rampant  than 
ever. ' ' 

"What's  gone  wrong  with  him?"  Garner  inquired, 
uneasily. 

"  Well,  for  a  while,  you  know,  he  was  full  of  hope 
«  311 


Mam*   Linda 

that  Wiggin  was  goin'  to  beat  Carson,  and  that 
sorter  satisfied  him,  but  now  that  Wiggin  is  losin' 
ground,  Dan  don't  see  revenge  that  way.  Besides, 
since  old  Sister  Parsons  made  that  rip-roarin'  speech 
respectable  folks  are  turnin'  the'r  backs  on  Wiggin 
and  all  his  backers.  The  gal  Willis  was  to  marry  has 
thro  wed  'im  clean  over,  an'  the  preacher  at  Hill 
Crest  just  as  good  as  called  his  name  out  in  meetin' 
in  talkin'  of  the  open  lawlessness  that  is  spreadin' 
over  the  land.  Oh,  Willis  is  mad — he's  got  all  hell 
in  'im,  an'  he's  makin'  more  threats  agin  Dwight. 
Now,  to-morrow  is  Friday,  an'  the  next  day  is  Sat- 
urday, an'  on  Saturday  Dan  Willis  is  comin'  in  town. 
I  got  that  straight.  Wiggin  is  a  snake  in  the  grass, 
and  he's  constantly  naggin'  Dan  about  his  row 
with  Carson,  and  it  will  take  slick  work  on  our  part 
to  prevent  serious  trouble.  Wiggin  wouldn't  care. 
If  the  two  met  he'd  profit  either  way,  for  if  Carson 
was  killed  he'd  have  the  field  to  himself,  an'  if  Car- 
son killed  Willis  the  boy  'd  have  to  stand  trial  for 
his  life,  an'  a  man  wouldn't  run  much  of  a  political 
race  with  a  charge  of  bloody  murder  hangin'  over 
'im." 

"True  —  true  as  Gospel!"  Garner  frowned;  "but 
what  plan  had  you  in  mind,  Pole — I  mean  what  plan 
to  obviate  trouble?" 

"Why,  you  see,"  the  mountaineer  replied,  "I 
'lowed  you  might  be  able  to  trump  up  some  business 
excuse  for  gittin'  Carson  out  o'  town  next  Saturday." 

"Well,  I  think  I  can,"  Garner  cried,  his  eyes 
brightening.  "  The  truth  is,  I  was  to  go  myself  over 
to  see  old  man  Purdy,  the  other  side  of  Springtown, 
to  take  his  deposition  in  an  important  matter,  but 

312 


Mam'    Linda 

I  can  pretend  to   be  tied  here  and  foist  it  onto 
Carson." 

"  Good;  that's  the  stuff!"  Pole  said,  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction.  "  But  for  the  love  of  mercy  don't  let 
D wight  dream  what's  in  the  wind  or  he'd  die  rather 
than  budge  an  inch." 

So  it  was  that  Carson  the  following  Friday  after- 
noon made  his  preparations  for  a  ride  on  horse- 
back through  the  country,  his  plan  being  to  spend 
the  night  at  the  little  hotel  at  Springtown  and  ride 
on  to  Purdy's  farm  the  next  morning  after  breakfast, 
and  return  to  Darley  Saturday  evening  shortly  after 
dark. 

His  horse  stood  at  the  hitching-rack  in  front  of 
the  office,  and,  ready  for  his  journey,  he  was  going 
out  when  Garner  called  him  back. 

"Are  you  armed,  my  boy?"  Garner  questioned. 

"  Not  now,  old  man,"  D  wight  said.  "  I've  carried 
that  two  pounds  of  cold  metal  on  my  hip  till  I  got 
tired  of  it  and  left  it  in  my  room.  If  I  can't  live  in 
a  community  without  being  a  walking  arsenal  I'll; 
leave  the  country." 

"You'd  better  make  an  exception  of  to-day,  any- 
how," Garner  said,  reaching  down  into  the  drawer 
of  his  desk.  "Here,  take  my  gun." 

"Well,  I  might  accidentally  need  it,"  Dwight 
said,  thoughtfully,  as  he  took  the  weapon  and  put 
it  into  his  pocket. 

As  he  was  unfastening  his  horse,  Dr.  Stone  crossed 
the  street  from  the  opposite  sidewalk  and  approach- 
ed him. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  this  time?"  the  old  man 
asked. 

313 


Mam'    Linda 

Carson  explained  as  he  tightened  the  girth  of  his 
saddle  and  pulled  the  blanket  into  place. 

"  Well,  I'd  get  back  as  soon  as  I  could  well  manage 
it,"  the  physician  said,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Carson  started  and  looked  grave. 

"Why,  doctor,  you  are  not  afraid — " 

"Oh,  she's  doing  very  well,  my  boy,  but — well, 
there  is  no  use  keeping  back  anything  from  anybody 
as  much  concerned  as  you  are.  The  truth  is,  she's 
very  low.  I  think  we  can  pull  her  through  all  right, 
with  care  and  attention,  but  I  feel  that  I  ought  to 
warn  you  and  lecture  you  a  little,  too.  You  see, 
as  I've  often  said,  she  is  a  woman  who  suffers 
mightily  from  worry  and  excitement  of  any  kind, 
and  your  adventures  of  late  have  not  had  the  best 
effect  on  her  health.  I  hope  it's  all  over  and  that 
you  will  settle  down  to  something  more  steady. 
Her  life  really  is  in  your  hands  more  than  mine,  for 
if  you  should  have  any  more  trouble  of  a  serious 
nature  it  would  simply  kill  her.  I  only  mention 
this,"  the  doctor  continued,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
young  man's  arm  half  apologetically,  "because  there 
is  some  little  talk  going  round  that  you  and  Dan 
Willis  haven't  quite  settled  your  differences  yet. 
If  I  were  in  your  place,  Carson,  I'd  take  a  good  deal 
from  that  man  before  I'd  have  trouble  with  him 
right  now,  considering  the  critical  condition  your 
mother  is  in.  A  shooting-scrape  on  top  of  all  the 
rest,  even  if  you  got  -the  best  of  it,  would  simply 
send  that  good  woman  to  her  grave." 

"Then  we  won't  have  any  shooting-scrape!"  Car- 
son said,  his  voice  quivering.  "You  can  depend  on 
that,  doctor." 


Mam'    Linda 

The  road  Dwight  took  as  the  most  direct  way  to 
his  destination  really  passed  within  two  miles  of  the 
home  of  Dan  Willis,  and  yet  the  likelihood  of  his 
meeting  the  desperado  never  once  crossed  Carson's 
mind.  In  this,  however,  he  was  to  meet  with  sur- 
prise. He  had  got  well  into  the  mountains,  and,  full 
of  hope  as  to  his  campaign,  was  heartily  enjoying  a 
slow  ride  on  his  ambling  horse  through  a  narrow, 
shaded  road,  after  leaving  the  heat  of  the  open 
thoroughfare,  when  far  ahead  of  him  he  saw  a  horse- 
man at  the  side  of  the  way  pinning  with  his  pocket- 
knife  to  the  smooth  bark  of  a  sycamore-tree  a  white 
envelope.  The  distance  was  at  first  too  great  for 
Dwight  to  recognize  the  rider,  though  his  object 
and  occupation  were  soon  evident,  for  suddenly 
wheeling  on  his  rather  skittish  mount  the  man  drew 
back  about  twenty  paces  from  the  tree,  drew  a  re- 
volver and  began  to  fire  at  the  target,  sending  one 
shot  after  the  other,  as  rapidly  as  he  could  rein  and 
spur  his  frightened  animal  to  an  approved  distance 
and  steadiness,  until  his  weapon  was  empty.  The 
marksman,  evidently  a  mountaineer,  as  indicated 
by  his  wide-brimmed  soft  hat  and  easy  gray  shirt, 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  trousers -pocket  and  took 
out  sufficient  cartridges  for  another  round,  and  was 
thumbing  them  dexterously  into  their  places  when 
Carson  drew  near  enough  to  recognize  him. 

A  thrill,  a  sort  of  shock,  certainly  not  due  even  to 
subconscious  fear,  passed  over  Dwight,  and  he  almost 
drew  upon  his  rein.  Then  a  hot  flush  of  shame  rose 
in  him  and  tingled  through  every  nerve  in  his  body, 
as  he  wondered  if  for  one  instant  he  could  have 
feared  the  presence  of  any  living  man,  armed  or  un- 

315 


Mam'    Linda 

armed,  and  running  his  hand  behind  him  to  be  sure 
that  his  own  revolver  was  in  place,  and  with  his  head 
well  up  he  rode  even  more  briskly  forward.  He  had 
no  thought  of  caution.  The  sharp  warning  Dr. 
Stone  had  given  him  so  recently  never  entered  his 
brain.  That  was  the  man  who,  on  several  occasions, 
had  threatened  to  kill  him,  and  who,  Carson  firmly 
believed,  had  once  tried  it.  That  there  was  to  be 
grim  trouble  he  did  not  doubt.  Averting  it  after 
the  manner  of  a  coward  was  not  thought  of. 

When  the  two  riders  were  about  a  hundred  yards 
apart,  Dan  Willis,  hearing  the  fall  of  horses'  hoofs, 
looked  up  suddenly.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
evolution  of  his  facial  expression  from  startled  be- 
wilderment to  that  of  angry,  bestial  satisfaction.  Ut- 
tering an  unctuous  grunt  of  delight,  and  with  his 
revolver  swinging  easily  against  his  brawny  thigh, 
by  the  aid  of  his  tense  left  hand  the  mountaineer 
drew  his  horse  squarely  into  the  very  middle  of  the 
narrow  road  and  there  essayed  to  check  him.  The 
animal,  quivering  with  excitement  from  the  shots 
just  fired  over  his  head,  was  still  restive  and  swerved 
tremblingly  from  side  to  side,  but  with  prodding 
spur  and  fierce  command  Willis  managed  to  keep 
him  in  the  attitude  of  open  opposition  to  Carson's 
passage,  which  was,  as  things  go  in  the  mountains,  a 
threat  not  to  be  misunderstood. 

Carson  D wight  read  the  action  well,  and  his  blood 
boiled. 

"Halt  thar!"  Dan  Willis  suddenly  called  out,  in  a 
sharp,  fierce  tone,  and  as  he  spoke  he  raised  his 
revolver  till  the  hand  holding  it  rested  on  the  high 
pommel  of  his  saddle. 

316 


"'HALT  THAR!'  DAN  WILLIS  SUDDENLY  CALLED  OUT" 


Mam'    Linda 

"Why  should  I  halt?"  almost  to  his  surprise  rang 
clearly  from  Dwight's  lips.  " This  is  a  public  road!" 

"Not  for  yore  sort,"  was  hurled  back.  "It's  en- 
tirely too  narrow  for  a  gentleman  an'  a  dog  to  pass 
on.  I'm  goin'  to  pass,  but  I'll  walk  my  hoss  over 
yore  body.  I've  been  praying  for  this  chance,  an' 
God  or  Hell,  one  or  t'other,  sent  it  to  me.  Some 
folks  say  you've  got  grit.  I've  my  doubts  about  it, 
for  you  are  the  hardest  man  to  meet  I  ever  wanted 
to  settle  with,  but  if  you've  got  any  sand  in  yore 
gizzard  you've  got  a  chance  to  spill  some  of  it  now." 

"  I  don't  want  to  have  trouble  with  you,"  Dwight 
controlled  himself  enough  to  say.  "  Bloodshed  is  not 
in  my  line." 

"But  you've  got  to  fight!"  Willis  roared.  "If 
you  don't  I'll  ride  up  to  you  an'  spit  in  yore  damned, 
sneakin'  face." 

"Well,  I  hardly  think  you'll  do  that,"  said  Car- 
son, his  rage  overwhelming  him.  "  But  before  we 
go  into  this  thing  tell  me,  for  my  own  satisfaction 
if  you  are  the  one  who  tried  to  kill  me  the  night 
Pete  Warren  was  jailed." 

"You  bet  I  was,  and  damned  sorry  I  missed." 
Willis's  revolver  was  raised.  The  sharp  click  of  the 
hammer  sounded  like  the  snapping  of  a  metallic 
twig.  Then  alive  but  to  one  thought,  and  that  of 
alert  and  instantaneous  self-preservation,  Dwight 
quickly  drew  his  weapon.  With  his  teeth  ground 
together,  his  breath  coming  fast,  he  took  as  careful 
aim  as  was  possible  at  the  shifting  horseman,  con- 
scious of  the  advantage  his  antagonist  had  over  him 
in  the  calmness  of  his  own  mount.  He  saw  a  puff 
of  smoke  before  Willis's  eyes,  heard  the  sharp  report 


Mam'    Linda 

of  the  mountaineer's  revolver,  and  wondered  if  the 
ball  had  lodged  in  his  body. 

"  I  am  fully  justified,"  something  within  him  seem- 
ed to  say  as  he  pressed  the  trigger  of  his  revolver. 
His  hand  had  never  been  more  steady,  his  aim  never 
better,  and  yet  the  smile  and  taunting  laugh  of  Willis 
proved  to  him  that  he  had  missed.  The  eyes  of  his 
assailant  gleamed  like  those  of  an  infuriated  beast  as 
he  tried  to  steady  his  rearing  and  plunging  horse  to 
shoot  again.  Once  more  he  fired,  but  the  shot  went 
wild,  and  with  a  snort  of  fear  his  horse  broke  from 
the  road  and  plunged  madly  into  the  bushes  bor- 
dering the  way.  Carson  could  just  see  Willis's  head 
and  shoulders  above  a  thick  growth  of  wild  vines 
and  at  these  he  aimed  steadily  and  fired.  Had  he 
won?  he  asked  himself.  There  was  a  smothered 
report  from  Willis's  revolver,  as  if  it  were  fired  by 
an  inert  finger.  The  mountaineer's  head  sank  out 
of  sight.  What  did  it  mean?  Carson  wondered, 
and  with  his  weapon  still  cocked  and  poised  he 
grimly  waited.  It  was  only  for  an  instant,  for  the 
frightened  horse  plunged  out  into  the  open  again. 
Willis  was  still  in  the  saddle,  but  what  was  it  about 
him  that  seemed  so  queer?  He  was  evidently  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  guide  his  horse,  but  the  hand  holding 
his  revolver  hung  helplessly  against  his  thigh;  his 
left  shoulder  was  sinking.  Then  Carson  caught  sight 
of  his  face,  a  frightful,  blood-packed  mask  distorted 
past  recognition,  that  of  a  dying  man — a  horrible, 
never  -  to  -  be  -  forgotten  grimace.  The  horses  bore 
the  antagonists  closer  together;  their  eyes  met  in  a 
direct  stare.  Willis's  body  was  rocking  like  a  me- 
chanical thing  on  a  pivot. 


Mam'    Linda 

"  You  forced  me  to  do  it !"  Carson  D wight  said,  his 
great  soul  rising  to  heights  of  pity  and  dismay  never 
reached  before.  "God  knows  I  did  not  want  to 
shoot  you.  Dan,  I  never  have  had  anything  against 
you.  I  would  have  avoided  this  if  I  could." 

The  stare  of  the  wounded  man  flickered.  With  a 
moan  of  pain  he  bent  to  the  neck  of  his  horse  and 
remained  there  a  moment,  and  then,  dropping  his 
revolver  and  resting  both  quivering  hands  on  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle,  he  drew  himself  partially  erect. 
His  eyes  were  rolling  upward,  his  purple  lips  moved 
as  if  to  speak,  but  his  vocal  organs  seemed  to  have 
lost  their  power.  Holding  to  his  pommel  with  his 
left  hand,  he  raised  his  right  and  partially  extended 
it  towards  D  wight,  but  he  had  not  the  strength  to 
sustain  its  weight,  and  with  another  moan,  a  froth- 
ing at  the  mouth,  Dan  Willis  toppled  from  his  horse 
and  went  to  the  ground,  the  animal  breaking  away 
in  alarm  and  running  down  the  road. 

Quickly  dismounting,  Carson  bent  over  the  dying 
man.  "Dan,  were  you  offering  me  your  hand?" 
he  asked,  tenderly.  But  there  was  no  response. 
The  mountaineer  was  dead.  There  he  lay,  a  pint 
whiskey  flask  nearly  empty  of  its  contents  protrud- 
ing from  his  shirt. 

Carson  looked  up  and  about  him.  The  sky  had 
never  seemed  clearer,  the  forest  never  so  beautifully 
lush  and  green,  so  full  of  sylvan  recesses  and  the 
gladsome  songs  of  birds.  Higher  and  more  majestic 
never  had  the  mountains  seemed  to  tower  into 
God's  infinite  blue.  And  yet  here  at  his  feet  lay 
the  remains  of  one  who  had  been  created  in  the 
image  of  his  Maker,  as  lifeless  as  the  clod  from  which 

3*9 


Mam'    Linda 

he  had  sprung.  All  this — and  Carson's  horse  nib- 
bling with  bitted  mouth  the  short  grass  which  grew 
about.  There  were  no  fires  of  satisfied  revenge  at 
which  the  spiritually  chilled  young  man  could  warm 
himself.  Regret  steeped  in  the  vat  of  remorse  filled 
his  young  soul.  Seating  himself  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  he  remained  there  a  long  time  calmly  laying  his 
plans.  Of  course,  knowing  the  law  as  he  knew  it, 
he  would  give  himself  up  to  the  sheriff.  Then  with 
a  start  and  a  shock  of  horror  he  thought  of  his  moth- 
er. Dr.  Stone's  warning  now  loomed  up  before  him 
as  if  written  in  letters  of  fire.  Yes,  this — this,  of  all 
things,  would  kill  her !  Knowing  her  nature,  nothing 
that  could  happen  to  him  would  be  more  fatal.  Not 
even  his  own  death  by  violence  would  hold  such 
terrors  for  her  sensitive,  imaginative  temperament, 
which  exaggerated  every  ill  or  evil  that  beset  his 
path.  After  all,  he  grimly  asked  himself,  which  way 
did  his  real  duty  lie  ?  Obedience  to  the  law  he  rev- 
erenced demanded  that  he  throw  himself  upon  its 
slow  and  creaking  routine,  and  yet  was  there  not  a 
higher  tribunal?  By  what  right  should  the  legal 
machinery  of  his  or  any  other  country  require  the 
life  of  a  stricken  woman  that  the  majesty  of  its 
forms  might  be  upheld  and  the  justice  or  injustice 
to  an  outlaw  who  had  persistently  hounded  him  be 
formally  passed  upon? 

No,  he  told  himself,  the  right  to  protect  his  mother 
was  his — it  was  even  more,  as  he  saw  it,  it  was  his 
first  duty.  And  yet  if  he  kept  his  own  counsel,  he 
asked  himself,  his  legal  mind  now  active,  what  were 
the  chances  of  escape  from  accusation?  Noti- 
cing the  target  still  pinned  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree 

320 


Mam'    Linda 

with  the  dead  man's  pocket-knife,  the  shots  showing 
on  the  bark  and  paper,  and  the  sprawling  attitude 
of  the  corpse  with  the  wound  over  the  region  of  the 
heart,  he  asked  himself,  with  faintly  rising  hope, 
what  more  natural  than  to  assume  that  death  had 
resulted  from  accident?  What  more  reasonable 
than  the  theory  that  on  his  frightened  horse  Dan 
Willis  had  accidentally  directed  his  shot  upon  his 
own  body?  What  better  evidence  that  he  was  not 
at  himself  than  the  almost  empty  flask  in  his  shirt  ? 
Yes,  Carson  D wight  decided,  it  was  his  duty  to  wait 
at  least  to  see  further  before  taking  a  step  which 
would  result  in  even  deeper  tragedy.  Besides,  he 
knew  he  was  morally  guiltless.  His  conscience  was 
clear;  there  was  consolation  in  that  at  all  events. 
But  now  wrhat  must  he  do  ?  To  go  on  to  Springtown 
by  that  road  was  out  of  the  question,  for  only  a  mile 
or  so  farther  on  was  a  store  and  a  few  farm-houses, 
and  it  would  be  known  there  that  he  had  passed 
the  fatal  spot.  So,  remounting,  he  rode  slowly  back 
towards  Darley,  now  earnestly,  and  even  craftily, 
hoping  that  he  would  meet  no  one.  He  was  success- 
ful, for  he  reached  the  main  road,  which  was  longer, 
not  so  well  graded,  and  a  more  sparsely  settled  thor- 
oughfare to  his  destination. 

He  had  lost  time,  and  he  now  put  his  horse  into  a 
brisk  canter  and  sped  onward  with  a  queer  blending 
of  emotions.  The  thought  of  possibly  saving  his 
mother  from  a  terrible  shock  buoyed  him  up  while 
the  grewsome  happening  put  a  weight  upon  him  he 
had  never  borne  before. 


XXXIX 

(T  was  after  dark  when  he  finally  reached 
Springtown  and  rode  through  the  quiet 
little  street  to  the  only  hotel  in  the 
village  kept  by  a  certain  Tom  Wyman, 
iwhom  Dwight  knew.  Dismounting, 
he  turned  his  tired  horse  over  to  a  negro  porter  and 
went  into  the  room  which  was  used  at  once  as  par- 
lor and  office.  A  dog-eared  account-book  lay  open 
on  a  table,  and  here,  at  the  request  of  the  cordial 
Wyman,  a  short,  portly  man  with  sandy  hair  and 
mustache,  Carson  registered  his  name. 

"You  are  out  electioneering,  I  know,"  the  pro- 
prietor smiled,  agreeably,  as  he  rubbed  his  fat  hands 
together.  "  Well,  you  are  going  to  run  like  a  scared 
dog.  I  hear  your  name  everywhere.  It  looked  as 
black  as  Egyptian  darkness  for  you  once,  but  you 
are  gaining  ground.  No  man  ever  had  a  better 
campaign  document  than  the  speech  Jabe  Parsons' 
wife  made.  Gee  whiz!  it  was  a  stem- winder;  it  set 
folks  to  laughin'  at  Wiggin,  and  that  was  the  worst 
thing  that  ever  happened  to  him.  Jabe  Parsons  is 
for  you  now,  though  he  headed  one  wing  of  the  mob 
agin  your  pet  darky.  You  see,  Jabe  wants  to  prove 
that  his  wife  was  right  in  the  way  she  first  felt  about 
the  matter,  and  he's  a  strong  man." 

As  if  in  a  dream,  so  far  into  the  background  had 
322 


Mam'    Linda 

even  his  contest  been  thrust  by  the  tragedy,  Carson 
heard  himself  as  if  from  the  mouth  of  another  ex- 
plaining that  it  was  legal  business  that  had  brought 
him  thither,  and  calmly  asking  the  best  road  from 
the  village  to  Purdy's  farm,  whither  he  intended  to 
go  the  following  morning  after  breakfast. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  supper  bell  was  rung  by  a 
negro,  who  carried  it  with  deafening  clangor  through 
the  main  hall  and  round  the  house,  and  two  or  three 
drummers,  of  the  small-trade  class,  a  village  store- 
keeper, and  a  stock-drover  or  two  clattered  in  on  the 
uncarpeted  floor  to  the  dining-room,  and  with  more 
noise  drew  out  their  chairs  and  sat  down.  It  hap- 
pened that  Carson  knew  none  of  them,  and  so  he  sat 
silent  through  the  meal.  Usually  of  robust  appetite, 
to-night  all  inclination  to  physical  nourishment  had 
deserted  him.  Try  as  he  would  to  fasten  his  mind 
upon  more  cheerful  things,  the  view  of  Dan  Willis's 
body  stretched  upon  the  ground,  the  ghastly  features 
struggling  in  the  throes  of  death,  came  again  and 
again  before  his  eyes  with  tenacious  persistency. 
Morbidly,  he  asked  himself  if  that  state  of  mind 
would  continue  always.  The  disaster  really  had 
crept  upon  him  through  no  deliberate  fault  of  his. 
In  fact,  he  could  trace  its  very  beginning  to  his  de- 
termination to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  make  a 
better  man  of  himself — to  that  and  to  a  natural  in- 
born pity  for  a  persecuted  creature,  and  yet  here 
was  he,  his  hands  stained  red,  unable  by  any  stoi- 
cism or  philosophy  to  rid  himself  of  a  gloom  as  deep 
as  the  void  of  space.  Genuine  man  that  he  was, 
he  pitied  the  giant  who  had  fallen  before  him.  His 
mind,  trained  to  logical  reasoning  in  most  matters, 

323 


Mam'   Linda 

told  him  that  he  was  more  than  justified  in  what 
he  had  done ;  but  then,  if  so,  to  what  was  due  this 
strange  shock  to  his  whole  being — this  restless  sense 
of  boundless  debt  to  something  never  met  before, 
the  ominous  napping  of  wings  in  a  new  darkness 
around  him? 

After  supper,  to  kill  time  until  the  hour  of  retir- 
ing, Carson  declined  the  proffered  cigar  of  his  host, 
and  to  avoid  the — to  him — empty  chatter  of  the 
others,  now  assembled  on  the  little  porch,  he  strolled 
down  the  street.  Here  groups  of  men  sat  in  front 
of  the  stores  in  the  dim  light  thrown  from  murky 
lamps  within,  but  it  happened  that  he  was  not  rec- 
ognized by  any  of  them  though  there  were  several 
gaunt  forms  he  knew,  and  he  passed  on,  walking 
feverishly.  On  and  on  he  strode  till  he  had  covered 
more  than  a  mile  and  suddenly  came  upon  a  little 
church  surrounded  by  a  graveyard.  He  leaned  upon 
the  rotten  fence  and  looked  over  at  the  mounds 
marked  by  white  marble  slabs  in  some  cases,  plain, 
unlettered  natural  stones  in  others,  and  some  un- 
marked by  any  sort  of  monument,  but  having  little 
white  palings  around  them. 

Carson  Dwight  shuddered  and  turned  his  face 
back  towards  the  village  as  he  asked,  himself  if  this 
might  be  the  resting-place  of  the  man  he  had  slain. 
Life  to  him  had  been  so  bounteous,  despite  all  the 
trials  he  had  encountered,  that  to  think  that  he  had 
by  his  own  hand,  even  under  gravest  provocation, 
deprived  a  human  being  of  its  privileges  gave  him 
pain  akin  to  nothing  he  had  ever  felt  before. 

Reaching  his  room  in  the  hotel,  which  was  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs  in  the  front  part  of  the  house,  his 

324 


Mam'    Linda 

first  impulse  was  to  lock  his  door — why,  he  could  not 
have  explained.  It  was  not  fear;  what  was  it? 
With  a  defiant  smile  he  left  it  unfastened  and  pro- 
ceeded to  undress  himself.  As  he  threw  himself  on 
his  bed  he  became  conscious  of  the  impulse  to  say  his 
prayers.  What  a  queer  thing!  It  had  been  years 
since  he  had  actually  knelt  in  prayer,  and  yet  to- 
night he  wanted  to  do  so.  A  strange,  hot,  rebellious 
mood  came  over  him  a  few  minutes  later  as  he  lay 
staring  at  the  disk  on  the  sky-blue  ceiling  cast  by 
the  lamp-chimney.  He  felt  like  crying  out  to  the 
infinite  powers  in  tones  of  demand  to  lift  the  weird, 
stifling  pall  that  was  pressing  down  on  him. 

The  words  his  father  had  spoken  in  a  rage  when 
the  old  gentleman  had  first  seen  the  wound  on  his 
forehead  after  Pete  Warren's  rescue  now  came  to 
him  with  startling  force: 

"  All  this  for  a  trifling  negro!  Have  you  lost  your 
senses?" 

What,  Carson  asked  himself,  would  his  father 
say  to  this  deeper  step — this  headlong  plunge  into 
misfortune  as  the  outcome  of  the  cause  he  had  es- 
poused ? 

Carson  could  not  sleep,  and  fancying  that  if  his 
light  were  out  he  might  do  so,  he  rose  and  extin- 
guished it  and  went  back  to  bed.  But  he  was  still 
restless.  The  hours  dragged  by.  It  was  after 
twelve  o'clock,  when  on  the  still  night  air  came  the 
steady  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  distance,  grow- 
ing louder  and  louder,  till  with  a  cry  of  "  Woah !"  the 
animal  was  reined  in  at  the  hotel  door,  and  the 
stentorian  voice  of  the  rider  called  out: 

"Hello!  hello  in  thar!" 
325 


Mam'    Linda 

There  was  a  pause,  but  no  response.  The  land- 
lord was  evidently  a  sound  sleeper. 

"Hello!  hello!"  Again  the  call  rang  jarringly 
through  the  empty  hall  below  and  up  the  stairway. 

Carson  sat  erect,  put  his  feet  on  the  floor,  and 
stood  out  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  He  told  him- 
self that  it  was  an  officer  of  the  law  in  pursuit  of  him. 
How  silly  to  have  imagined  that  such  a  thing  could 
remain  hidden!  And  his  mother!  Yes,  it  would 
kill  her!  Poor,  poor,  gentle,  frail  woman!  He  had 
tried  to  obviate  the  blow,  resorting  to  deception,  to 
actual  flight;  he  had  submerged  himself  in  the  mire 
of  criminal  secrecy,  according  to  the  letter  of  the 
law,  that  he  might  shield  her,  and  for  what  purpose  ? 
Yes,  the  blow  would  kill  her.  Dr.  Stone  had  plainly 
said  so. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  At  the 
gate  below  he  saw  a  man  on  a  horse,  and  heard  him 
muttering  impatiently. 

"Hello  in  thar!"  The  cry  was  accompanied  by 
an  oath.  "Are  you-uns  plumb  deaf  ?  What  do  you 
keep  a  tavern  fur,  anyhow?" 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  room  below  of  some 
one  getting  out  of  bed,  and  then  a  drowsy  voice 
cried: 

"  Who's  there  ?"     It  was  the  landlord. 

"Me,  Jim  Purvines.  Let  me  in,  Tom.  I've  got 
to  have  a  bed  an'  a  stall  fer  my  nag.  I'm  completely 
fagged  out." 

"All  right,  all  right.  I'll  join  you  in  a  minute. 
Where  in  the  thunder  have  you  been,  Jim?" 

"  To  the  inquest.  They  made  me  serve.  Samson 
called  a  jury  right  off  so  they  could  move  the  body 

326 


Mam'   Linda 

home.  The  dead  man's  mammy  didn't  want  it  to 
lie  thar  all  night." 

"Good  Lord!  Jury?  Dead  man?  Why,  what's 
happened,  Jim?" 

"  Oh,  come  off!  You  don't  mean  you  hain't  heard 
the  news  ? ' '  The  rider  had  dismounted  and  was  lead- 
ing his  horse  through  the  gate  to  the  steps  on  which 
the  landlord  now  stood.  "Why,  Tom,  Dan  Willis 
has  gone  to  his  last  accountin'.  The  Webb  children, 
out  pickin'  huckleberries,  come  across  his  remains 
on  the  Treadwell  road  a  mile  t'other  side  o'  Wilks's 
store.  At  first  it  was  thought  he'd  met  his  death  by 
bein'  throwed  from  his  colt,  fer  somebody  seed  it 
loose  with  saddle  an'  bridle  on,  but  when  we  ex- 
amined the  body  we  found  a  bullet -hole  over  the 
heart." 

"  Good  Lord !    Who  done  it,  Jim  ?" 

Carson's  heart  was  in  his  mouth ;  his  breath  was 
held;  there  was  a  pause  which  seemed  without  end. 

"  Done  it  hisself ,  Tom.  The  jury  had  no  dif- 
ficulty comin'  to  that  decision  from  ample  evidence. 
He'd  tuck  his  pocket-knife  an'  stuck  up  an  envelope 
with  his  name  on  it  agin  a  tree,  an',  half  drunk,  as  we 
judged  from  his  flask,  he  was  shoo  tin'  at  it  over  the 
head  of  a  young  colt  that  hain't  been  broke  a  month. 
Dan  must  have  had  the  devil  in  'im,  an'  was  deter- 
mined to  train  the  animal  to  stand  under  fire,  fer  we 
seed  whar  the  dirt  was  pawed  up  powerful  all  around. 
We  calculated  that  the  colt  got  to  buckin'  an'  to 
keep  from  bein'  throwed  off  Dan  turned  his  gun  the 
wrong  way.  Anyhow,  he's  no  more." 

"Yes,  an'  I  reckon  a  body  ought  to  respect  the 
dead,  good  or  bad,"  said  the  landlord;  "but  there 

327 


Mam*    Linda 

won't  be  a  river  of  tears  shed,  Jim.  That  fellow 
was  a  living  threat  to  law  and  order." 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  that  he  was  the  chap  that  shot 
Carson  Dwight  the  night  he  saved  that  nigger  from 
the  mob." 

"  Sh !  He's  up-stairs  now,"  The  landlord  lowered 
his  voice. 

"You  don't  say!  Sort  o*  out  of  his  beat,  ain't 
he?" 

"  I  don't  know — on  his  way  to  Purdy's.  Go  on 
in;  I'll  attend  to  your  horse  and  come  back  and 
find  you  a  place  to  bunk." 

Carson  sank  back  on  his  bed.  A  sense  of  vast, 
almost  soothing  relief  was  on  him.  His  mother  was 
saved.  The  verdict  that  had  been  rendered  would 
forever  bury  the  facts.  Now,  he  told  himself,  he 
could  sleep  with  his  mind  at  rest.  And  yet — 

He  heard  the  new-comer  ascend  the  stairs  with 
heavy,  shambling  tread  and  enter  the  room  adjoining 
his  own.  Through  a  crack  between  the  floor  and  the 
thin  partition  he  saw  a  pencil  of  candle-light  and 
heard  the  grinding  of  boot-soles  on  the  floor  as  the 
man  undressed.  Then  the  light  went  out,  the  bed- 
slats  creaked,  and  all  was  still. 


XL 


jWIGHT  reached  Darley  the  following 
evening  shortly  after  dusk,  and  rode 
straight  through  the  central  portion 
of  the  town  and  past  his  office.  All 
day  long  he  had  debated  with  himself 
whether  it  would  be  wise  to  take  Garner  into  his 
confidence,  and  at  last  had  decided  that  it  would 
do  no  good,  and  only  cause  his  sympathetic  partner 
to  worry  needlessly,  since  Garner  nor  no  one  else 
could  point  out  any  better  course  than  the  one  to 
which,  perforce,  he  had  committed  himself.  Carson 
now  comprehended  his  insistent  morbidness.  It 
was  not  fear;  it  was  not  a  guilty  conscience;  it  was 
only  the  galling  shackles  of  unwonted  and  hateful 
secrecy,  the  vague  and  far-reaching  sense  of  uncer- 
tainty, the  knowledge  of  being,  before  the  law  (which 
was  no  respecter  of  persons,  circumstances,  or  senti- 
ment), as  guilty  of  murder  as  any  other  untried  vio- 
lator of  peace  and  order. 

On  the  way  down  the  street  to  his  home  he  met 
Dr.  Stone,  who  was  also  riding,  and  reined  in. 

"  My  mother — how  is  she,  doctor  ?"  he  asked.  "  I 've 
been  away  since  I  saw  you  yesterday." 

"You'll  really  be  surprised  when  you  see  her," 
the  old  man  smiled.  "She's  tip-top!  I  never  saw 
such  a  change  for  the  better  in  all  my  experience,  She 

329 


Mam'  Linda 

had  old  Linda  in  her  room  when  I  was  there  about 
noon,  and  they  were  laughing  and  cracking  jokes 
at  a  great  rate.  She'll  pull  through  now,  my  boy. 
I  tried  to  get  her  to  tell  me  what  had  happened,  but 
she  threw  me  off  with  the  joke  that  she  had  changed 
doctors  and  was  taking  another  fellow's  medicine 
on  the  sly,  and  then  she  and  Linda  laughed  together. 
I  believe  the  old  negro  knew  what  she  meant.  I'll 
tell  you  one  thing,  Carson,  if  I  wasn't  afraid  of 
hurting  your  pride  I'd  congratulate  you  on  what 
happened  to  that  chap  Willis.  Really,  if  that  thing 
hadn't  taken  place  you  and  he  would  have  had 
trouble.  Some  think  he  was  getting  ready  for  you 
when  he  was  shooting  at  that  target." 

"Perhaps  so,  doctor,"  Carson  said,  glad  that  the 
dusk  veiled  his  face  from  the  old  man's  sight.  "  Well, 
I'll  go  on." 

At  the  carriage  gate  at  home  he  found  old  Lewis 
standing  ready  to  take  his  horse. 

"  Hello!"  Carson  said,  with  a  joke  that  was  foreign 
to  his  mood;  "when  did  Major  Warren  discharge 
you?" 

"Hain't  discharge  me  yit,  young  marster,"  Lewis 
smiled,  in  delight,  as  he  opened  the  gate  and  reached 
out  for  the  bridle.  "  I  knowed  you'd  be  along  soon, 
en  so  I  waited  fer  you.  Marse  Carson,  Linda  power- 
ful anxious  ter  see  you.  She  settin'  on  yo'-all's 
veranda-step  now;  she  been  axin'  is  you  got  back 
all  evenin*.  Dar  she  come  now,  young  marster.  I'll 
put  up  yo'  horse." 

"All  right,  Uncle  Lewis,"  and  Dwight,  seeing  the 
old  woman  shambling  towards  him,  went  across  the 
lawn  and  met  her. 

330 


Mam'    Linda 

"Oh,  young  marster,  I  been  waitin'  fer  you,"  she 
said.  "I  got  some'n'  ter  ax  you,  suh." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked.  "  If  it  is  anything  I  can 
do  I'll  be  glad  to  help  you." 

"I  don't  like  ter  bother  you,  young  marster," 
Linda  said,  plaintively;  "but  somehow  it  don't  seem 
lak  anybody  know  what  ter  do.  I  went  ter  young 
miss,  en  she  said  fer  me  ter  see  you — dat  you  was 
de  onliest  one  ter  decide.  Marse  Carson,  of  course 
you  done  heard  dat  man  Willis  done  killed  hisse'f, 
ain't  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  Mam'  Linda — oh  yes!"  Dwight  said,  his 
voice  holding  an  odd,  submerged  quality. 

"Well,  young  marster,  you  see,  me'n  Lewis 
thought  dat,  bein'  as  dat  man  was  de  ringleader,  en 
de  only  one  left  on  de  rampage  after  my  boy,  dat, 
now  he's  daid,  I  might  sen'  ter  Chattanoogy  fer  Pete 
en  let  'im  come  on  home." 

"Why,  I  thought  he  was  doing  well  up  there?" 
Carson  said  again,  in  a  tone  which  to  himself  sounded 
as  expressionless  as  if  spoken  only  from  the  lips. 

"Dat  so;  dat  so,  too,"  Linda  sighed;  "but,  Marse 
Carson,  he  de  onliest  child  I  got  en  I  wants  'im  wid 
me.  I  wants  'im  whar  I  kin  see  'im  en  try  ter 
'fluence  'im  ter  do  what's  right.  In  er  big  place  lak 
Chattanoogy  he  may  git  in  mo'  trouble,  en — "  She 
went  no  further,  her  voice  growing  tremulous  and 
finally  failing. 

"Well,  send  for  him,  by  all  means,"  Dwight  said. 
"He'll  be  all  right  here.  We'll  find  something  for 
him  to  do." 

"En,  en— dar  won't  be  no  mo'  trouble?"  Linda 
faltered. 


Mam'    Linda 

"None  in  the  world  now,  mammy,"  he  replied. 
"  The  people  all  over  the  country  are  thoroughly  sat- 
isfied that  he's  innocent.  No  one  will  even  appear 
against  him.  He  is  all  right  now." 

Tears  welled  up  in  Linda's  eyes  and  she  wiped 
them  off  on  her  apron.  "  Thank  God,  young  marster ; 
one  time  I  thought  I  never  would  want  ter  live  an- 
other minute,  en  yit  right  now — right  now  I'm  de 
happiest  woman  in  de  whole  world,  en  you  done  it, 
young  marster.  You  stood  up  fer  er  po'  old  nigger 
'oman  when  de  world  was  turn  agin  'er,  en  God  on 
high  know  I  bless  you.  I  bless  you  in  every  prayer 
I  sen'  up." 

He  turned  from  her  as  she  stood  wiping  her  eyes 
and  went  on  to  his  mother's  room,  finding  her,  to  his 
delight,  sitting  up  in  an  easy-chair  near  the  table 
on  which  stood  a  lamp  and  a  book  she  had  been 
reading. 

"Did  you  see  Linda?"  Mrs.  D wight  asked,  as  he 
kissed  her  tenderly  and  stood,  still  with  that  ever- 
present  alien  weight  at  his  heart,  stroking  her  soft 
cheek.  He  nodded  and  smiled. 

"And  did  you  tell  her — did  you  decide  that  Pete 
could  come  back?" 

He  nodded  and  smiled  again.  "She  seems  to 
think  I'm  running  the  country." 

"As  far  as  her  interests  are  concerned,  you  have 
been,"  the  invalid  said,  proudly.  "Oh,  Carson, 
you  know  somehow  it  has  happened  that  I  never 
knew  Linda  so  well  as  some  of  our  own  slaves,  but 
since  this  thing  came  up  I  have  thoroughly  enjoyed 
having  her  come  to  see  me.  I  keep  her  here  hours 
at  a  time.  Do  you  know  why?" 

332 


Mam'    Linda 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Not  unless  it  is  because  she 
has  such  a  strong  individuality  and  is  so  original." 

"  No,  that  isn't  it — it  is  simply,  my  boy,  because 
she  worships  the  very  ground  you  walk  on,  and  I 
love  to  hear  her  express  it  in  the  thousands  of  in- 
direct ways  she  has.  Oh,  Carson,  I'm  simply  fool- 
ish— foolish  about  you!  I  have  never  been  able  to 
tell  you  how  I  felt  about  your  heroic  conduct.  I 
was  afraid  to.  I  gloried  in  it,  but  your  constant 
danger  tied  my  tongue — I  was  afraid  you'd  take 
more  risks.  I've  got  a  secret  to  tell  you." 

"To  tell  me?"  he  said,  still  stroking  her  cheek. 

"Yes;  Dr.  Stone,  seeing  that  I  was  so  much  bet- 
ter this  morning  tried  to  worm  it  out  of  me,  but 
I  wouldn't  tell  him  the  cause.  Carson,  for  a  long 
time  I  have  harbored  a  gnawing,  secret  fear.  It  was 
with  me  night  and  day.  I  knew  it  was  dragging 
me  down,  keeping  me  from  proper  sleep  and  proper 
nourishment,  but  I  couldn't  rid  myself  of  it  till  this 
morning." 

"What  was  it,  mother?"  he  asked,  unable  to  see 
her  drift. 

"The  fear,  my  boy,  that  you  and  that  Dan  Willis 
would  meet  face  to  face  has  for  a  long  time  been 
a  constant  nightmare  to  me.  I  had  picked  up  in 
various  ways,  sometimes  from  remarks  let  fall  by 
your  father  or  one  of  the  servants,  more  about  your 
differences  with  that  man  than  you  were  aware  of. 
I  tried  to  keep  you  from  knowing  how  I  felt,  but  it 
was  secretly  dragging  me  to  my  grave." 

"And  now,  mother?"  he  asked,  an  almost  hopeful 
light  breaking  far  away  on  his  clouded  horizon. 

"Oh,  it  may  be  an  awful  sin,  for  I'm  told  Willis 
333 


Mam*   Linda 

had  a  mother  " — Mrs.  Dwight  sighed — "  but  when  the 
news  came  to-day  that  he  had  accidentally  killed 
himself  I  became  a  new  woman.  He  was  the  one 
thing  I  dreaded  above  all  else,  for,  Carson,  if  he  had 
not  shot  himself  you  and  he  would  have  met  and 
one  of  you  would  have  fallen.  Oh,  I'm  so  happy. 
I'm  going  to  get  well  now,  my  boy.  You  will  see 
me  out  on  the  lawn  in  a  day  or  two." 

His  eyes  were  on  the  floor  at  her  feet.  Why  he 
gave  so  much  of  his  mental  burden  to  mere  utterance 
he  could  not  have  explained,  but  he  said : 

"And  even  if  we  had  met,  mother,  and  he  had 
tried  to  shoot  me,  and — and  I,  in  self-defence  you 
know,  had  been  forced  to  kill  him — really  forced — 
I  suppose  even  that  situation  would  have — disturbed 
you?" 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't  talk  of  that!"  Mrs.  Dwight  cried. 
"  I  don't  think  it  is  right  to  think  of  unpleasant  things 
when  one  is  happy.  God  did  it,  Carson.  God  did 
it  to  save  you." 

"All  right,  mother,  I  was  only  thinking — " 

"Well,  think  of  pleasanter  things,"  Mrs.  Dwight 
interrupted  him.  "Helen's  been  over  to  see  me 
rather  oftener  of  late.  We  frequently  sit  and  chat 
together.  It  makes  me  feel  young  again.  She  is 
very  free  with  me  about  herself  —  that  is,  about 
everything  except  her  affair  with  Mr.  Sanders." 
*  "She  doesn't  talk  of  that  much,  then?"  he  vent- 
ured, tentatively. 

"She  won't  talk  about  it  at  all,"  said  the  invalid; 
"  and  that's  what  seems  so  queer  about  it.  A  wom- 
an can  see  deeper  into  a  woman's  heart  than  a  man 
can,  and  I've  been  wondering  over  Helen.  Some- 

334 


Mam'    Linda 

times  I  almost  think—  Mrs.  Dwight  seemed  lost 
in  thought  and  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  she  had 
ceased  speaking. 

"You  were  saying,  mother,"  he  reminded  her, 
eagerly,  "that  you  almost  thought — " 

"Why,  it  seems  to  me,  Carson,  that  any  natural 
girl  ought  to  be  so  full  of  her  engagement  to  the  man 
she  is  to  marry  that  she  would  really  lave  to  talk 
about  it.  Really  it  seems  to  me  that  Helen  may  be 
questioning  her  heart  in  this  matter,  but  she'll  end 
by  marrying  Mr.  Sanders.  It  looks  as  if  she  has 
pledged  herself  in  some  way  or  other,  and  she  is  the 
very  soul  of  honor." 

"Oh  yes,  she  is  all  that,"  Dwight  said,  in  an  effort 
at  lightness.  "Now,  good-night,  mother." 

Much  fatigued  from  his  journey  and  the  mental 
strain  upon  him,  he  went  up  to  his  room.  Throwing 
off  his  coat,  the  night  being  warm  to  oppressiveness, 
he  lighted  a  cigar  and  sat  in  the  wide-open  window. 
What  a  strange,  tempestuous  life  was  his!  How 
like  a  mere  bauble  of  soul  and  flesh  was  he  buffeted 
between  highest  heaven  and  lowest  earth !  And  for 
what  purpose  was  he  created  in  the  vast  scheme  of 
endless  solar  systems? 

From  the  row  of  negro  cabins  and  cottages  below, 
across  the  dewy  grass  and  shrubbery,  on  the  flower- 
perfumed  air  came  sounds  of  unrestrained  merriment. 
Some  negro  in  a  cottage  near  Linda's  was  playing  a 
mouth-organ  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  sweetly 
twanging  guitar.  There  was  a  rhythmic  clapping  of 
hands,  the  musical,  drumlike  thumping  of  feet  on 
resounding  boards,  snatches  of  happy  songs,  clear, 
untrammelled,  childlike  laughter. 

335 


Mam'   Linda 

They — and  naught  else — had  brought  him  his 
burden.  That  complete  justice  might  be  meted  out 
to  such  as  they,  he  had  dipped  his  hands  into  the 
warm  blood  of  his  own  race,  and  was  an  outlaw 
bearing  an  honored  name,  stalking  forth,  pure  of 
heart,  and  yet  masked  and  draped  with  deceit, 
among  his  own  kind.  And  for  what  ultimate  good  ? 
Alas!  he  was  denied  even  the  solace  of  a  look  into 
futurity.  And  yet — born  in  advance  of  his  time,  as 
the  Son  of  God  was  born  ahead  of  His — there  was 
yet  something  in  him  which — while  he  shrank  from 
the  depth  and  bitterness  of  his  cup — lifted  him,  in 
his  unmated  loneliness,  in  his  blindness,  to  far-off 
light — high  above  the  material  world.  There  to 
suffer,  there  to  endure,  and  yet — there. 


XLI 

IT  was  the  day  following  the  burial  of 
the  body  of  Dan  Willis.  Old  man 
Purdy,  whom  Carson  had  gone  to  see, 
was  at  Dilk's  cross-roads  store  with 
;a  basket  of  fresh  eggs,  which  he  had 
brought  to  exchange  for  their  market  value  in  coffee. 
Several  other  farmers  were  seated  about  the  store 
on  nail-kegs  and  soap-boxes  whittling  sticks  and 
chewing  tobacco,  their  slow  tongues  busy  with  the 
details  of  the  recent  death  and  interment. 

Old  Purdy  was  speaking  of  how  the  children  had 
discovered  the  body,  and  remarked  that  it  would 
have  been  found  several  hours  sooner  if  Carson 
Dwight  had  only  taken  the  shorter  road  that  day 
to  Springtown  instead  of  the  longer. 

"Why,  Dwight  come  from  Darley,  didn't  he?" 
asked  Dilk,  as  he  wrote  down  the  number  of  eggs  he 
had  counted  on  a  piece  of  brown  paper  on  the  counter 
and  waited  before  continuing. 

"Why,  yes,"  Purdy  made  answer;  "he  told  me,  as 
we  were  goin'  through  the  work  he  had  to  do  at  my 
house,  that  he  had  gone  to  Springtown  an'  stayed 
all  that  night  an'  then  rid  on  to  me." 

The  store-keeper's  hands  hovered  over  the  basket 
for  an  instant,  then  they  rested  on  its  edge.  "Well, 
I  can't  make  out  what  under  the  sun  Dwight  went 

337 


Mam'    Linda 

so  far  out  o'  his  way  for.  It's  fully  five  mile  farther, 
and  the  road  is  so  rough  and  washed  out  that  it's 
mighty  nigh  out  of  use." 

,  "Well,  that  does  look  kind  o'  funny,  come  to  think 
of  it,"  admitted  Purdy,  as  he  gazed  into  the  bland 
faces  around  him.  "I  never  thought  of  it  before, 
but  it  certainly  looks  odd,  to  say  the  least." 

"Of  course  thar  may  not  be  a  thing  in  it,"  said 
Dilk,  in  a  guarded  tone,  "but  it  does  all  seem  strange, 
especially  after  we've  heard  so  much  talk  about  the 
threats  passin'  betwixt  them  very  two  men.  I  mean, 
you  see,  neighbors,  that  it  sort  o'  looks  providen- 
tial that — that  Dan  met  with  the  accident  before 
Dwight  an'  him  come  together  over  here.  That's 
what  I  mean." 

All  heads  nodded  gravely,  all  minds  were  busy, 
each  in  its  own  individual  way,  and  stirred  by  some- 
thing more  exciting  than  the  mere  accidental  death 
of  Willis  or  the  formality  of  his  burial. 

There  was  a  rather  prolonged  silence  broken  only 
by  the  click  of  the  eggs  which  Dilk  was  counting  into 
a  new  tin  dish-pan.  When  he  had  finished  he  weigh- 
ed out  the  coffee  and  emptied  it  into  the  white, 
smoothly  ironed  poke  Purdy 's  wife  had  sent  along 
for  that  purpose.  Then  he  looked  straight  into 
Purdy's  eyes. 

"Did  you  notice — if  thar  ain't  no  harm  in  axin' — 
whether  Dwight  seemed — well,  anyways  upset  or — 
or  bothered  while  he  was  at  your  house?" 

"Well,  /  didn't,"  replied  the  farmer;  "but  my 
wife  was  in  the  room  while  he  was  doin'  the  writin' 
that  had  to  be  done,  an'  I  remember  now  she  axed 
me  after  he  left  ef  he  was  a  drinkin'  man.  I  told  her 

338 


Mam'   Linda 

no,  I  didn't  think  he  was  now,  though  he  used  to  be 
sorter  wild,  an'  I  wanted  to  know  why  she  axed  me. 
She  said  she  never  had  seed  anybody's  hands  shake 
like  his  did  while  he  held  the  pen,  an'  that  he  had  a 
quar  look  about  the  eyes  like  he'd  lost  a  power  o' 
sleep." 

"Was — was  anything  said  in  his  presence  about 
Willis's  death  that  you  remember  of?"  the  store- 
keeper pursued,  with  the  skill  of  a  legal  cross- 
examiner,  while  the  listeners  stared,  their  cuds  of 
tobacco  compressed  between  their  grinders. 

Purdy's  face  had  grown  rigid,  almost  as  that  of  an 
important  witness  on  the  stand  in  court.  "I  can't 
just  remember,"  he  said.  "There  was  so  much 
talk  about  it  on  all  sides  that  day.  Oh  yes — now  I 
recall  that — well,  you  see  we  was  all  at  my  house, 
eager  for  news,  and  it  struck  me,  you  know,  as  if 
Dwight  wasn't  as  anxious  to  talk  as  the  rest — in  fact, 
it  looked  like  he  sorter  wanted  to  change  the  subject." 

' '  Oh !"  The  exclamation  was  breathed  simultane- 
ously from  several  mouths. 

"Of  course,  neighbors,"  Purdy  began,  in  alarm, 
' '  don't  understand  me  for  one  minute  to — ' '  But  he 
broke  off,  for  Dilk  had  something  else  to  observe. 

"Them  two  men  was  at  dagger's  -  p'ints,  I've 
heard,"  he  declared.  "Friends  on  both  sides  was 
movin'  heaven  an'  earth  to  keep  'em  apart.  Now  if 
Dwight  did  take  that  long,  roundabout  road  from 
Barley  to  Springtown,  why,  they  didn't  meet.  But 
ef  Dwight  went  the  way  he  always  has  tuck,  an'  I've 
seed  'im  out  this  way  often  enough,  why — "  Dilk 
raised  his  hands  and  held  them  poised  significantly 
in  mid-air. 

339 


Mam*   Linda 

"  But  the  coroner's  jury  found,"  said  Purdy,  "  that 
Willis  was  shoo  tin'  at  a  target  he'd  stuck  up  on  a 
tree  with  his  own  knife,  an'  that  his  young  hoss  was 
skittish,  an'—" 

"All  the  better  proof  of  bad  blood  betwixt  'em," 
burst  from  a  farmer  on  a  nail-keg.  "The  truth  is, 
some  hold  now  that  Willis  was  out  practising  so  he 
could  wing  that  particular  game.  The  only  thing 
I  see  agin  what  you-uns  seem  to  think  is  that  it's 
been  kept  quiet.  Dwight  is  a  lawyer  an'  knows  the 
law,  an'  he  wouldn't  cover  a  thing  like  that  up  when 
all  he'd  have  to  do  would  be  to  establish  proof  that 
it  was  done  in  self-defence  an'  git  his  walking- 
papers." 

"Thar  you  are!"  Dilk  said,  in  a  voice  that  rang 
with  conviction;  "but  suppose  one  thing — suppose 
this.  Suppose  the  provocation  wasn't  exactly  strong 
enough  to  quite  justify  killing.  Suppose  Dwight, 
made  mad  by  all  he'd  heard,  drawed  an'  fired  without 
due  warning,  and  suppose  while  he  was  thar  in  that 
quiet  spot  he  had  time  to  think  it  all  over  and  decided 
that  he'd  stand  a  better  chance  of  escape  by  not 
bein'  known  in  the  matter.  A  body  never  can  tell. 
You  kin  bet  your  boots  if  Dwight  did  kill  'im  an' 
hid  the  fact,  he  had  ample  legal  reasons  fer  not 
wan  tin'  to  be  mixed  up  in  it." 

The  seed  was  sown,  and  upon  soil  well  suited  to 
rapid  germination  and  growth.  By  the  next  day 
the  noxious  weed  had  its  head  well  above  the  ground, 
and,  like  the  crab-grass  the  farmers  knew  to  be  so 
tenaciously  prolific,  it  was  spreading  rapidly. 


XLII 

[WEEK  went  by.  Helen  Warren  had 
been  sitting  that  warm  afternoon  in  the 
big  bay-window  of  the  parlor.  A  cool- 
ing breeze  fanned  the  old  lace  curtains 
inward,  bringing  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers  from  the  garden  and  now  and  then  revealing 
a  wealth  of  color  on  the  rose-bushes  near  by.  She 
had  just  read  an  appealing  letter  from  Sanders  in 
which  he  had  expressed  himself  as  having  been  so 
disturbed  by  her  refusal  to  assure  him  positively  of 
what  his  ultimate  fate  was  to  be  that  he  had  per- 
mitted himself  to  worry  considerably.  So  greatly 
concerned,  indeed,  was  he  that  he  had  confided  in  his 
mother,  who,  he  wrote,  had  made  matters  worse  by 
asking  him  flatly  if  he  was  absolutely  sure  that  he 
was  loved  in  the  one  and  only  way  a  man  should  be 
loved  by  the  woman  he  was  hoping  to  win  for  his 
wife. 

He  was  writing  all  this  to  Helen  in  a  straight- 
forward, manly  way,  putting  her  sharply  on  her 
honor,  as  it  were,  and  she,  poor  girl,  was  worried  in 
her  turn.  Leaving  her  chair,  she  went  to  the  piano 
and  seated  herself  and  began  to  play.  She  was  thus 
occupied  when  Ida  Tarpley  came  in  suddenly  and 
unannounced,  as  she  felt  privileged  to  do  at  any 
time. 


Mam'    Linda 

"Well,  tell  me,"  the  visitor  smiled,  "what's  the 
matter  with  your  playing?  Why,  you  used  to  have 
a  good,  even  touch,  but  as  I  came  up  the  walk  I 
declare  I  thought  it  was  some  one  tuning  the  piano. 
You  were  dropping  enough  notes  to  fill  a  waste-paper 
basket." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  it,  I  presume!" 
Helen  said,  checking  a  sigh. 

"  I  understand. ' '  Miss  Tarpley  gently  pushed  back 
Helen's  hair  and  kissed  her  brow.  "  You  can't  deny 
it ;  you  were  thinking  about  Carson  Dwight  and  all 
his  troubles." 

Helen  flushed  and  dropped  her  glance  to  her  lap, 
then  she  rose  from  the  piano  and  the  two  girls  moved 
hand  in  hand  to  the  window.  "  The  truth  is,"  Helen 
admitted,  "that  I  have  been  wondering  if  anything 
has  gone  wrong  with  him — any  bad  news  or  indica- 
tions about  his  election." 

"He  can't  be  worrying  about  the  election,"  Ida 
said,  confidently.  "Mr.  Garner  comes  to  see  me 
often  and  confides  in  me  rather  freely,  and  he  says 
the  people  are  flocking  back  to  Carson  in  swarms  and 
droves.  They  understand  him  now  and  admire  him 
for  the  courageous  stand  he  took." 

"Well,  something  is  wrong  with  him,"  Helen  de- 
clared, eying  her  cousin  sadly.  "  Mam'  Linda  nev- 
er makes  a  mistake;  she  knows  him  through  and 
through.  She  went  to  thank  him  last  night  for 
getting  a  position  for  Pete  to  work  regularly  at  the 
flouring  mill,  and  she  came  back  really  depressed 
and  shaking  her  head. 

" '  Suppin  certain  sho  gone  wrong  wid  young  mars- 
ter,  honey,'  she  said.  'He  ain't  never  been  lak  dis 

342 


y.  "&•  PI 


HELEN,    1  M    AFRIAU    SOMETHING    VERY,    VERY    SERIOUS    IS 
HANGING    OVER    HIM*" 


Mam'   Linda 

before;  he  ain't  hissej,  I  tell  you!  He's  yaller  an' 
shaky  an'  look  quar  out'n  de  eyes." 

"  Oh !"  and  Miss  Tarpley  sank  into  one  of  the  chairs 
in  the  window.  "I'm  almost  sorry  you  mentioned 
that,  for  now  /'ll  worry.  I've  always  had  his  cause 
at  heart,  and  now — Helen,  I'm  afraid  something 
very,  very  serious  is  hanging  over  him.  I'm  not 
hinting  at  anything  that  might  come  out  of  his  dis- 
appointment over  your  affair  with  Mr.  Sanders, 
either.  It  seems  to  me  he  accepted  that  as  inevi- 
table and  is  making  the  best  of  it,  but  it  is  something 
else." 

"Something  else!"  Helen  repeated.  "Oh,  Ida, 
how  horribly  you  talk !  Do  you  mean — is  it  possible 
that  he  was  more  seriously  wounded  that  night  than 
he  has  let  us  know?" 

"  No,  it's  not  that.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  In 
fact,  Mr.  Garner  says — " 

"What  does  he  say,  Ida?"  Helen  threw  into  the 
gap  left  by  her  cousin's  failure  to  proceed,  and  stood 
staring. 

"  Well,  you  know  it  is  easy  sometimes  to  tell  when 
one  is  not  revealing  everything,  and  I  felt  that  way 
about  Mr.  Garner  when  he  called  night  before  last. 
In  the  first  place,  though  he  tried  to  do  it  in  a  casual 
sort  of  way,  he  kept  talking  of  Carson  all  the  time. 
It  was  almost  as  if  he  had  come  to  see  if  I  would 
confirm  some  secret  fear  of  his,  for  he  seemed  to  get 
near  it  several  times  and  then  backed  out.  Once 
he  went  further  than  he  intended,  for  he  said,  as  if  it 
were  a  slip  of  the  lip,  when  we  were  speculating  on 
the  possible  cause  of  Carson's  depression — he  said, 
'  There  is  one  thing,  Miss  Ida,  that  I  fear,  and  I  fear 
a*  343 


Mam*    Linda 

it  so  much  that  I  dare  not  even  mention  it  to  my- 
self.' " 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Helen,  and  she  leaned  on  the 
back  of  her  chair;  "what  could  he  have  meant?" 

"I  don't  know;  Mr.  Garner  wouldn't  explain;  in 
fact,  he  seemed  rather  upset  by  his  unintentional 
remark.  He  laughed  awkwardly  and  changed  the 
subject,  and  never  alluded  to  Carson  again  while  he 
stayed.  As  he  was  getting  his  hat  in  the  hall,  I 
followed  him  and  tried  to  pin  him  down  to  some  sort 
of  explanation,  and  then  he  made  an  effort  to  throw 
me  off.  'Oh,'  he  said,  'you  know  Carson  is  terribly 
blue  about  losing  Helen,  and  it  has,  of  course,  caused 
him  to  care  less  about  his  election,  but  he'll  come 
around  in  time.'  I  told  Mr.  Garner  then  that  I  was 
sure  he  had  meant  something  else.  I  was  looking 
straight  at  him  and  saw  his  glance  fall,  but  that  was 
all  I  got  out  of  him.  Something  is  wrong,  Helen — 
something  very,  very  serious." 

"  Have  you  seen  Carson  lately,  Ida?"  Helen  asked, 
with  rigid  lips. 

"  Not  to  speak  to  him ;  he  seems  to  avoid  me,  but 
as  I  sat  in  the  window  of  my  room  yesterday  after- 
noon I  saw  him  go  by.  He  didn't  see  me,  but  I  saw 
his  face  in  repose,  and  oh,  cousin,  it  wrung  my  heart. 
He  really  must  have  some  great  secret  trouble,  and 
it  hurts  me  to  feel  that  I  can't  help  him  bear  it. 
He  used  to  confide  in  me,  but  he  seems  to  shun  me 
now,  and  that,  too,  in  itself,  is  queer." 

"  It  is  not  about  his  mother,  either,"  Helen  sighed, 
"for  her  health  has  been  improving  lately."  And 
as  Miss  Tarpley  was  leaving  she  accompanied  her 
gloomily  to  the  door. 

344 


Mam'   Linda 

The  twilight  fell  softly,  and  as  Helen  sat  in  the 
hammock  on  the  veranda  her  father  came  in  at  the 
gate  and  up  the  walk.  She  rose  to  greet  him  with 
her  customary  kiss,  and  taking  his  arm  they  began 
to  stroll  back  and  forth  along  the  veranda.  She 
was  hoping  that  he  would  speak  of  Carson  Dwight, 
but  he  didn't,  and  she  was  forced  to  mention  him 
herself,  which  she  did  rather  stiffly  in  her  effort  to 
make  it  appear  as  merely  casual. 

"  Ida  was  saying  this  afternoon  that  Carson  is  not 
looking  well — or,  rather,  that  he  seems  to  be  wor- 
ried," she  faltered  out,  and  then  she  hung  on  to  the 
Major's  arm  and  waited. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  the  old  gentleman  said,  re- 
flectively. "  I  went  into  his  office  this  afternoon  to 
get  a  blank  check,  and  found  him  at  his  desk  with  a 
pile  of  letters  from  his  supporters  all  over  the  county. 
Well,  I  acknowledge  I  wondered  why  he  should  have 
so  little  enthusiasm  when  the  thing  is  going  his  way 
like  the  woods  afire,  and  his  crusty  old  father  fairly 
chuckling  with  pride  and  delight ;  but  what's  the  use 
of  talking  to  you!  You  know  if  he  is  blue  there  is 
only  one  reason  for  it." 

"Only  one  reason!"  Helen  echoed,  faintly. 

"Yes,  how  could  the  poor  boy  be  happy — thor- 
oughly, so  I  mean — when  the  whole  town  can  talk  of 
nothing  else  but  the  grandeur  of  your  approaching 
marriage.  Mrs.  Snodgrass  has  started  the  report 
that  your  aunt  is  to  give  you  a  ten-thousand-dollar 
trousseau  and  that  Sanders  is  to  load  you  down  with 
family  jewels.  Mrs.  Snod  says  we  are  going  to  have 
such  a  crowd  here  at  the  house  that  the  verandas 
will  be  enclosed  in  canvas  and  the  tables  be  set 

345 


Mam'   Linda 

barbecue  fashion  on  the  lawn,  and  that  the  family 
servants  and  all  their  unlynched  descendants  are  to 
be  brought  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth  to  wait 
on  the  multitude  in  the  old  style.  You  needn't 
bother;  that's  what  ails  Carson.  He's  got  plenty  of 
pride,  and  that  sort  of  talk  will  hurt  any  man." 

But  Helen  was  unconvinced.  After  supper  she 
sat  alone  on  the  veranda,  her  father  being  occupied 
with  the  evening  papers  in  the  library.  What  could 
Garner  have  meant  by  his  remark  to  Ida  ?  With  a 
heavy  heart  and  her  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her  lap, 
Helen  sat  trying  to  fathom  the  mystery,  for  that 
there  was  mystery  she  had  no  doubt. 

She  went  back  to  the  first  days  of  her  return  home. 
When  she  had  arrived  her  heart — the  queer,  incon- 
sistent thing  which  was  now  so  deeply  concerned 
with  Carson  D wight's  affairs — had  been  coldly  steeled 
against  him.  The  next  salient  event  of  that  glad- 
some period  was  the  ball  in  her  honor  of  which  all 
else  had  faded  into  the  background  except  that 
memorable  talk  with  Carson  and  his  promise  to 
remove  Pete  from  the  temptations  of  living  in  town. 
The  boy  had  gone,  then  the  real  trouble  had  begun. 
Carson  had  rescued  him  from  a  violent  death  before 
her  very  eyes.  That  speech  of  his  was  never  to  be 
forgotten.  It  had  roused  her  as  she  had  never  been 
roused  by  human  eloquence.  With  a  throb  of  ter- 
ror, she  heard  the  report  of  the  pistol  fired  by  Dan 
Willis,  his  avowed  enemy — Dan  Willis  upon  whom 
a  just  Providence  had  visited — visited — visited — 

She  sat  staring  at  the  ground,  her  beautiful  eyes 
growing  larger,  her  hands  clutching  each  other  like 
clamps  of  vitalized  steel. 

346 


Mam'    Linda 

"  Oh !"  she  cried.  "  No,  no !  not  that— not  that ! ' ' 
It  was  an  accident.  The  coroner  and  his  jury  had 
said  so.  But  how  strange !  No  one  had  mentioned 
it,  and  yet  it  had  happened  on  the  very  day  Carson 
had  ridden  along  the  fatal  road  to  reach  Springtown. 
She  knew  the  way  well.  She  herself  had  driven 
over  it  twice  with  Carson,  and  had  heard  him  say  it 
was  the  nearest  and  best  road,  and  that  he  would 
never  take  any  other. 

Ah,  yes,  that  was  the  explanation — that  was  what 
Garner  feared.  That  was  the  terrible  fatality  which 
the  shrewd  lawyer,  knowing  its  full  gravity,  had 
hardly  dared  mention  even  to  himself.  Carson 
Dwight,  her  hero,  had  killed  a  man! 

Helen  rose  like  a  mechanical  thing,  and  with  drag- 
ging feet  went  up  the  stairs  to  her  room.  Before 
her  open  window — the  window  looking  out  upon  the 
Dwight  lawn  and  garden — she  sat  in  the  still  dark- 
ness, now  praying  that  Carson  might  appear  as  he 
sometimes  did.  If  she  saw  him,  should  she  go  to  him  ? 
Yes,  for  the  pain,  the  cold  clutch  on  her  heart  of  the 
discovery  was  like  the  throes  of  death.  She  told 
herself  that  she  had  been  the  primal  cause  of  this 
as  of  all  his  suffering.  In  the  blind  desire  to  oblige 
her,  he  had  wrecked  his  every  hope.  He  had  lost 
all  and  yet  was  uncomplaining.  Indeed,  he  was 
trying  to  hide  his  misfortune,  bearing  it  alone,  like 
the  man  he  was. 

She  heard  her  father  closing  the  library  windows 
to  prepare  for  bed.  His  steps  rang  hollowly  as  he 
came  out  into  the  hall  below  and  called  up  to  her : 

"Daughter,  are  you  asleep?" 

A  reply  hung  in  her  dry  throat.  She  feared  to 
347 


Mam'    Linda 

trust  her  voice  to  utterance.  She  heard  the  Major 
mutter,  as  if  to  himself,  "Well,  good-night,  daugh- 
ter," and  then  his  footsteps  died  out.  Again  she  was 
alone  with  her  grim  discovery. 

The  town  clock  had  just  struck  ten  when  she  saw 
the  red  coal  of  a  cigar  on  the  Dwight  lawn  quite 
near  the  gate  leading  into  her  father's  grounds.  It 
was  he.  She  knew  it  by  the  fitful  flaring  of  the  cigar. 
Noiselessly  she  glided  down  the  stairs,  softly  she 
turned  the  big  brass  key  in  the  massive  lock  and  went 
out  and  sped,  light  of  foot,  across  the  dewy  grass. 
As  she  approached  him  Dwight  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  her,  his  arms  folded. 

"Carson!"  she  called,  huskily,  and  he  turned  with 
a  start  and  a  stare  of  wonder  through  the  gloom. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it's  you,"  and  doffing  his  hat  he 
came  through  the  gateway  and  stood  by  her.  "  It's 
time,  young  lady,  that  you  were  asleep,  isn't  it?" 

She  saw  through  his  effort  at  lightness  of  manner. 

"  I  noticed  your  cigar  and  wanted  to  speak  to  you," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  tense  and  even 
harsh.  It  rose  almost  in  a  squeak  and  died  in  her 
tight  throat.  Something  in  his  wan  face  and  shift- 
ing eyes,  noticeable  even  in  the  darkness,  confirmed 
her  in  the  conviction  that  she  had  divined  his  secret. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me,"  he  said;  "I've  had  so 
many  things  to  think  about  lately,  in  this  beastly 
political  business,  you  know,  that  I'm  sadly  behind 
in  my  social  duties." 

"I — I've  been  thinking  about  you  all  evening," 
she  said,  lamely.  "Somehow,  I  felt  as  if  I  simply 
must  see  you  and  talk  to  you." 

"How  good  of  you!"  he  cried.  "I  don't  deserve 
348 


Mam'    Linda 

it,  though — at  such  a  time,  anyway.  It  is  generally 
conceded  that  it  is  a  woman's  duty,  placed  as  you  are, 
to  think  of  only  one  thing  and  one  individual.  In 
this  case  the  man  is  the  luckiest  one  in  God's  universe. 
He's  well-to-do,  has  scores  of  admiring,  influential 
friends,  and  is  to  marry  the  grandest,  sweetest  woman 
on  earth.  If  that  isn't  enough  to  make  a  man  happy, 
why—" 

"  Stop ;  don't  speak  that  way !"  Helen  commanded. 
"I  can't  stand  it.  I  simply  can't  stand  it,  Carson!" 

He  stared  at  her  inquiringly  for  a  moment,  as  she 
stood  with  her  face  averted,  and  then  he  heaved  a 
big  sigh  as  he  gently,  almost  reverently,  touched  her 
sleeve  to  direct  her  glance  upon  himself. 

"What  is  it,  Helen?"  he  said,  softly,  a  wealth  of 
tenderness  in  his  shaking  voice.  "What's  gone 
wrong?  Don't  tell  me  you  are  unhappy.  Things 
have  gone  crooked  with  me  of  late — I — I  mean  that 
my  father  has  been  displeased,  till  quite  recently  at 
least,  and  I  have  not  been  in  the  best  mood;  but  I 
have  been  sustained  by  the  thought  that  you,  at 
least,  were  happy.  If  I  thought  you  were  not,  I 
don't  know  what  I  would  do.  ' 

"How  can  I  be  happy  when  you — when  you — " 
Her  voice  dwindled  away  into  nothingness,  and  she 
could  only  face  him  with  all  her  agony  and  despair 
burning  in  her  great,  melting  eyes. 

"When  I  what,  Helen?"  he  asked,  gropingly. 
"Surely  you  are  not  troubled  about  me,  now  that 
my  political  horizon  is  so  bright  that  my  opponent 
can't  look  at  it  without  smoked  glasses.  Oh,  I'm  all 
right.  Ask  Garner — ask  your  father — ask  Braider — 
ask  anybody." 

349 


Mam'   Linda 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  your  election,"  she  found 
voice  to  say.  "Oh,  Carson,  do  have  faith  in  me! 
I  crave  it;  I  long  for  it;  I  yearn  for  it.  I  want  to 
help  you.  I  want  to  stand  by  you  and  suffer  with 
you.  You  can  trust  me.  You  tried  me  once — you 
remember — and  I  stood  the  test.  Before  God,  I'll 
never  breathe  it  to  a  soul.  Oh" — stopping  him  by 
raising  her  despairing  hand — "don't  try  to  deceive 
me  because  I'm  a  girl.  The  uncertainty  is  killing  me. 
I'll  not  close  my  eyes  to-night.  The  truth  will  be 
easier  borne  because  I'll  be  bearing  it — with  you.1' 

"Oh,  Helen,  can  it  be  possible  that  you — "  He 
had  spoken  impulsively  and  essayed  to  check  him- 
self, but  now,  pale  as  a  corpse,  he  stood  before  her  not 
knowing  what  to  do  or  say.  He  opened  his  mouth 
as  if  to  speak,  and  then  with  a  helpless  shrug  of  his 
shoulders  he  lapsed  into  silence,  a  droop  of  utter 
despondency  upon  him.  She  was  now  sure  she  was 
right,  and  a  shaft  she  had  never  met  before  entered 
her  heart  and  remained  there — remained  there  to 
strengthen  her,  good  woman  that  she  was,  as  such 
things  have  strengthened  women  of  all  periods. 
She  laid  her  firm  hand  upon  his  arm  in  a  pressure 
meant  to  comfort  him,  and  with  the  purity  of  a  sor- 
rowing angel  she  said: 

"  I  know  the  truth,  dear  Carson,  and  if  you  don't 
show  me  a  way  to  get  you  out  from  under  it — you 
who  did  it  all  for  my  sake — if  you  don't  I  shall  die. 
I  can't  stand  it." 

He  stood  convicted  before  her.  With  bowed  head 
he  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  said,  almost 
with  a  groan:  "To  think,  on  top  of  it  all,  that  you 
must  know — you!  I  was  bearing  it  all  right,  but 


Mam'   Linda 

now  you — you  poor,  gentle,  delicate  girl — you  have 
to  be  dragged  into  this  as  you  have  been  dragged 
into  every  miserable  thing  that  ever  happened  to 
me.  It  began  with  your  brother's  death — I  helped 
stain  that  memory  for  you — now  this — this  unspeak- 
able thing!" 

"You  did  it  wholly  in  self-defence,"  she  said. 
"You  had  to  do  it.  He  forced  it  on  you." 

"Yes,  yes — he  or  fate,  the  imps  of  Satan  or  the 
elemental  passion  born  in  me.  Flight,  open  flight 
lay  before  me,  but  that  would  have  been  the  death 
of  self-respect — so  it  came  about." 

"  And  you  kept  it  on  account  of  your  mother  ?"  she 
went  on,  insistently,  her  agonized  face  close  to  his. 

"Yes,  of  course.  It  would  kill  her,  Helen,  and 
I  would  be  doing  it  deliberately,  for  I  know  what 
the  consequences  would  be.  I  must  be  my  own 
tribunal.  I  have  no  right  to  take  still  another  life 
that  legal  curiosity  may  be  gratified.  But  till  I  am 
proven  innocent  I  am  a  murderer  —  that's  what 
hurts.  I  am  offering  myself  to  my  fellow-men  as 
a  maker  of  laws,  and  yet  am  deliberately  defying 
those  made  by  my  predecessors." 

"Your  mother  must  never  know,"  Helen  said, 
firmly.  "  No  one  shall  but  you  and  I,  Carson.  We'll 
bear  it  together."  She  took  his  hand  and  held  it 
tightly  for  a  moment,  then  pressing  it  tenderly  against 
her  cold  cheek,  she  lowered  her  head  and  left  him — 
left  him  there  under  the  vague  starlight,  the  soulful 
fragrance  of  her  soothing  personality  upon  him, 
causing  him  to  forget  his  peril,  his  grief,  and  his  far-, 
reaching  sorrow,  and  to  draw  close  to  his  aching 
breast  her  heavenly  sympathy  and  undying  fidelity. 


XLIII 

>NE  morning,  a  week  later,  Pole  Baker 
slouched  down  the  street  from  the 
wagon-yard,  and,  peering  into  the  law- 
office  of  Garner  &  Dwight,  he  stood 
'undecided  on  the  deserted  street,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  baggy 
trousers.  He  took  another  surreptitious  look.  Gar- 
ner was  at  his  desk,  his  great  brow  wrinkled  as  with 
concentrated  thought,  his  coarse  hair  awry,  his  coat 
off  and  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  to  his  elbows,  his  fin- 
gers stained  with  ink.  Glancing  up  at  this  moment, 
he  caught  the  farmer's  eye  and  nodded: 

"Hello!"  he  said,  cordially;  "come  in.  How's 
our  young  colt  running  out  your  way?" 

"Like  a  shot  out  of  a  straight-barrelled  gun," 
Baker  retorted.  "  He's  the  most  popular  man  in  the 
county.  He  had  a  slow  start,  in  all  that  nigger 
mess,  but  he's  all  right  now." 

"So  you  think  he'll  be  elected?"  Garner  said,  as 
Pole  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  his  desk  and  began  to 
twirl  his  long,  gnarled  fingers. 

"Well,  I  didn't  say  that,  exactly,"  the  farmer 
answered. 

"  But  you  said — "  In  his  perplexity  the  lawyer 
could  only  stare. 

"I  reckon  thar  are  lots  of  things  in  this  life  that 
352 


Mam'   Linda 

kin  keep  fellows  out  of  offices  besides  the  men  runnin' 
agin  'em,"  Baker  said,  significantly. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  in  a  long,  steady 
stare;  each  was  trying  to  read  the  other.  But 
Garner  was  too  shrewd  a  lawyer  to  be  pumped  even 
by  a  trusted  friend,  and  he  simply  leaned  back  and 
took  up  his  pen.  "Oh  yes,  of  course,"  he  observed, 
"a  good  many  slips  betwixt  the  cup  and  the  lip." 

Silence  fell  between  the  two  men.  Baker  broke 
it  suddenly  and  with  his  customary  frankness. 
"Look  here,  Bill  Garner,"  he  said.  "That  young 
feller's  yore  partner  an'  friend,  but  I've  got  his  in- 
terests at  heart  myself,  an'  it  don't  do  no  harm 
sometimes  fer  two  men  to  talk  over  what  concerns  a 
friend  to  both.  I  come  in  town  to  talk  to  somebody, 
an'  it  looks  like  you  are  the  man." 

"  Oh,  that's  it,"  Garner  said.  "  Well,  out  with  it, 
Baker." 

Pole  thrust  his  right  hand  into  his  pocket  and  took 
out  a  splinter  of  soft  pine  and  his  knife.  Then,  with 
the  toe  of  his  heavy  shoe,  he  drew  a  wooden,  saw- 
dust-filled cuspidor  towards  him  and  over  it  he  pre- 
pared to  whittle. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Carson,"  he  said. 
"  It  ain't  none  o'  my  business,  Bill,  but  I  believe  he's 
in  great  big  trouble." 

"You  do,  eh?"  and  Garner  seemed  to  throw  cau- 
tion to  the  winds  as  he  leaned  forward,  his  great, 
facile  mouth  open.  "Well,  Pole?" 

"  Gossip — talk  under  cover  from  one  mouth  to  an- 
other," the  mountaineer  drawled  out,  "is  the  most 
dangerous  thing,  next  to  a  bucket  o'  powder  in  a 
cook-stove  that  you  are  goin'  to  bake  in,  of  anything 

353 


Mam'   Linda 

I  know  of.  Gossip  has  got  hold  of  Dwight,  Bill,  an* 
it's  tangled  itself  all  about  him.  Ef  some'n'  ain't 
done  to  choke  it  off  it  will  git  him  down  as  shore  as  a 
blacksnake  kin  swallow  a  toad  after  he's  kivered  it 
with  slime." 

"You  mean — "  But  Garner  seemed  to  think 
better  of  his  inclination  towards  subterfuge  and 
broke  off. 

"  I  mean  about  the  way  Dan  Willis  met  his  death," 
Pole  said,  to  the  point.  "  I'm  no  fool  an'  you  ain't, 
at  least  you  -wouldn't  be  ef  you  was  paid  by  some 
client  to  git  at  the  facts.  Folks  are  ready  to  swear 
Carson  was  seed  the  day  that  thing  happened  on  that 
road  inside  of  a  mile  o'  whar  Willis  was  found.  You 
know  what  time  Carson  left  here  that  day;  it  was 
sometime  after  dinner,  an'  the  hotel  man  at  Spring- 
town  says  he  got  thar  an'  registered  after  dark.  He 
says,  too,  that  Carson  looked  nervous  an'  upset  an' 
seemed  more  anxious  to  avoid  folks  than  the  general 
run  of  vote-hunters.  Then  —  then,  oh,  well,  what's 
the  use  o'  beatin'  about  the  bush  ?  You  know  an'  I 
know  that  Carson  hain't  been  actin'  like  himself 
since  then.  It's  all  we  can  do  to  git  'im  interested 
in  his  own  popularity,  an'  that  shows  some'n'  is 
wrong — dead  wrong.  An'  it  looks  to  me  like  it  is  a 
matter  that  ought  to  be  attended  to.  Killin'  a  man 
is  serious  enough  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  without 
covering  it  up  till  it's  jerked  out  of  you  by  the  State 
solicitor." 

"So  you  think  the  two  men  met?"  Garner  said, 
now  quite  as  if  he  were  inquiring  into  the  legal  status 
of  any  ordinary  case. 

"That's  my  judgment,"  answered  Pole.  "And  if 
354 


Mam*   Linda 

I'm  right,  then  it  seems  to  me  that  Carson  an'  his 
friends  ought  to  take  action  before — " 

"  Before  what  ?"  Garner  prompted,  almost  eagerly. 

"  Before  the  grand  jury  takes  it  up,  as  you  know 
they  will  have  to  with  all  this  commotion  goin' 
the  rounds." 

"Yes,  Carson  ought  to  act — concerned  in  it  or 
not,"  said  Garner.  "If  something  isn't  done  right 
away,  it  might  be  sprung  on  him  on  the  very  eve 
of  his  election  and  actually  ruin  him." 

"I'm  worried,  an'  I  don't  deny  it,"  said  the  moun- 
taineer. "You  see,  Bill,  Carson's  a  lawyer,  and  he 
knows  whether  he  had  a  good  case  of  self-defence  or 
not,  an'  shirking  investigation  this  way  looks  power- 
ful like—" 

"Like  he  was  himself  the — aggressor,"  interpo- 
lated Garner,  with  a  frown. 

"  Yes,  like  that, ' '  said  Baker.  "  Of  course  we  know 
Willis  was  houndin'  the  boy  and  making  threats, 
but  Carson's  hot-headed,  as  hot-headed  as  they  make 
'em,  an'  maybe  he  flared  up  at  the  first  sight  of 
Willis  an'  blazed  away  at  'im.  I  don't  see  no  other 
reason  for  him  lyin'  so  low  about  it." 

"I'm  glad  you  came  to  me,"  Garner  said.  "I'll 
admit  I've  been  fearing  the  thing,  Pole.  It  will  be  a 
delicate  matter  to  broach,  but  I'm  going  to  talk  to 
him  about  it.  As  you  say,  the  longer  it  remains  like 
it  is  the  more  serious  it  becomes.  Good  Lord!  if  he 
did  kill  Willis — if  he  did  kill  him,  it  would  take  sharp 
work  to  clear  him  of  the  charge  of  murder  after  the 
silly  way  he  has  acted  about  it.  Why,  dang  it,  it's 
almost  an  admission  of  guilt!" 

Baker  had  barely  left  the  office  when  Carson  came 
355 


Mam'    Linda 

in,  nodded  to  his  partner,  and  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  began  in  an  absent-minded  way  to  cut  open 
some  letters  that  were  waiting  for  him.  Unob- 
served Garner  watched  him  from  behind  the  worn 
book  he  was  holding  up  to  his  face.  Hardened 
lawyer  that  he  was,  Garner's  heart  melted  with  pity 
as  he  noted  the  dark  splotches  under  the  young 
man's  eyes,  the  pathetic  droop  of  his  shoulders,  the 
evidences  in  every  facial  line  of  the  grim  inward 
struggle  that  was  going  on  in  the  brave,  supersensi- 
tive  soul.  Garner  put  down  his  book  and  went  into 
the  little  consultation-room  in  the  rear  and  stood  at 
the  window  which  looked  out  upon  a  small  patch  of 
corn  in  an  adjoining  lot. 

"He  did  it!"  he  said,  grimly.  "Yes,  he  did  it. 
Poor  chap!" 

The  task  before  him  was  the  hardest  Garner  had 
ever  faced.  He  could  have  discussed,  to  the  finest 
points  of  detail,  such  a  case  for  a  client,  but  Carson 
— the  strange,  winning  personality  over  which  he  had 
marvelled  so  often — was  different.  He  was  the  most 
courageous,  the  most  self-sacrificing,  the  most  keenly 
suffering  human  being  Garner  had  ever  known,  and 
the  most  sensitively  honorable.  How  was  it  possi- 
ble, even  indirectly,  to  allude  to  so  grave  a  charge 
against  such  a  man?  And  yet,  Garner  reflected, 
pessimistically,  the  best  of  men  sometimes  reach  a 
point  at  which  their  high  moral  and  spiritual  tension, 
under  one  crucial  test  or  another,  breaks.  Why 
should  it  not  be  so  in  Carson  Dwight's  case. 

Garner  went  back  to  his  desk,  sat  down,  and  turned 
his  revolving  -  chair  till  he  faced  Carson's  profile. 
"Look  here,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "I've  got  some- 

356 


Mam'    Linda 

thing  of  a  very  unpleasant  nature  to  say  to  you,  and 
it's  a  pretty  hard  thing  to  do,  considering  my  keen 
regard  for  you. 

Dwight  glanced  up  from  the  letter  he  held  before 
him.  He  read  Garner's  face  in  a  steady  stare  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  he  laid  the 
letter  down: 

"I  see  you've  heard  it.  Well,  I  knew  it  would 
get  out.  I've  seen  it  coming  for  several  days." 

"I  began  to  guess  it  a  week  or  so  back,"  Garner 
went  on,  outwardly  calm;  "but  this  morning  in  talk- 
ing to  Pole  Baker  I  became  convinced  of  it.  It  is  a 
grim  sort  of  thing,  my  boy,  but  you  must  not  despair. 
You've  surmounted  more  obstacles  than  any  young 
fellow  I  know,  and  I  believe  you  will  eventually  come 
through  this.  Though  you  must  acknowledge  that 
it  would  have  been  far  wiser  to  have  given  yourself 
up  at  once." 

"I  couldn't  do  it,"  Carson  responded,  gloomily. 
"I  thought  of  it.  I  started  on  my  way  to  Braid- 
er, really,  but  finally  decided  that  it  wouldn't 
do." 

"Good  God!  was  it  as  bad  as  that?"  Garner  ex- 
claimed. "I've  been  hoping  against  hope  that  you 
could—" 

"It  couldn't  be  worse."  Carson  lowered  his  head 
till  it  rested  on  his  hand.  His  face  went  out  of 
Garner's  view.  "  It's  going  to  kill  her,  Garner.  She 
can't  stand  it.  Dr.  Stone  told  me  that  another 
shock  would  kill  her." 

"You  mean — my  Lord!  you  mean  your  mother? 
You — you" — Garner  leaned  forward,  his  face  work- 
ing, his  eyes  gleaming — "  you  mean  that  you  did  not 

357 


Mam'    Linda 

report  it  because  of  her  condition  ?    Great  God !  why 
didn't  I  think  of  that?" 

"  Why,  certainly. "  Carson  looked  round.  "Did 
you  think  it  was  because — " 

"I  thought  it  was  because  you  had — had  killed 
him  in — well,  in  a  manner  you  feared  would  not  be 
adjudged  wholly  justifiable.  I  never  dreamed  of  the 
real  reason.  I  see  it  all  now,"  and  Garner  rose  from 
his  chair  and  with  his  lips  twitching  he  laid  his  hand 
on  Dwight's  back.  "I  understand  perfectly,  and  I 
admire  you  more  than  I  can  say.  Now,  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

For  an  hour  the  two  friends  sat  talking  together. 
Calmly  Carson  went  into  detail  as  to  the  happening, 
and  when  he  had  finished  Garner  said : 

"You've  got  a  good  case,  but  you  can  easily  see 
that  it  is  grievously  hampered  by  your  concealment 
of  the  facts  so  long.  To  make  a  jury  see  exactly  how 
you  felt  about  your  mother's  reception  of  the  thing 
may  be  hard,  for  the  average  man  is  not  by  nature 
quite  so  finely  strung  as  that,  but  we  'must  make 
them  see  it.  Dr.  Stone's  testimony  as  to  his  advice 
to  you  will  help.  But,  by  all  means,  we  must  make 
the  advance  ourselves  as  soon  as  possible — before  a 
charge  is  brought  against  you  by  the  grand  jury." 

v  "  But" — and  D wight  groaned  aloud — "my  mother 
simply  cannot  go  through  it,  Garner.  I  know  her. 
It  will  kill  her." 

"  She  simply  must  bear  it,"  Garner  said,  gloomily. 
"  We  must  find  a  way  to  brace  her  up  to  the  ordeal. 
I  have  it.  All  my  hopes  are  based  on  our  making 
such  a  clear  statement  before  Squire  Felton,  with  the 
testimony  of  several  witnesses  as  to  Willis's  threats 

358 


Mam'    Linda 

against  you,  that  he  will  throw  it  out  of  court.  I 
can  see  the  squire  to-day  and  have  a  hearing  set  for 
to-morrow.  We'll  make  quick  work  of  it.  I'll  also 
see  your  father  and — 

"My  father!"  Carson  exclaimed,  despondently. 

"Yes,  I'll  see  him  and  explain  the  whole  thing. 
I  think  I  can  get  him  to  keep  the  matter  from  reach- 
ing your  mother  till  after  the  hearing.  She  is  still 
confined  to  her  room,  and  surely  your  father  can 
manage  that  part  of  it." 

"Yes,"  Carson  replied,  gloomily;  "and  he  will  do 
all  he  can,  though  it's  going  to  be  a  terrible  blow  to 
him.  But — if — if  the  justice  court  should  bind  me 
over,  and  I  should  have  to  go  to  jail  to  await  trial, 
then  my  mother — •" 

"  Don't  think  about  her  now!"  Garner  said,  testily. 
"Let's  work  for  a  prompt  dismissal  and  not  look 
on  the  dark  side  till  we  have  to.  I'll  run  down  and 
talk  to  your  father  at  once,  before  the  rumor  reaches 
him  and  drives  him  crazy.  I  tell  you  it's  in  the  very 
air;  I've  felt  it  for  several  days." 


XLIV 

N  his  office  in  one  corner  of  his  great 
grain  and  cotton  warehouse,  at  a  dusty, 
littered  desk  before  a  murky,  cobweb- 
;  bed  window,  Garner  found  old  Dwight, 
his  lap  full  of  telegraphic  reports,  his 
head  submerged  in  a  morning  paper  containing 
the  market  and  crop  news  in  general.  Outside 
of  the  thin-walled  office  heavy  iron  trucks,  in  the 
grasp  of  brawny  black  men,  rattled  and  rumbled 
over  the  heavy  floor  and  across  weighty  skids  into 
open  cars  in  the  rear.  There  was  the  creaking  sound 
of  the  big  hand  elevators  engaged  in  hoisting  and 
lowering  bales,  barrels,  bags,  and  casks,  the  mellow 
sing-song  of  the  light-hearted  negroes  as  they  toiled, 
blissfully  ignorant  of  the  profound  gloom  which  had 
fallen  on  the  defender  of  their  rights. 

"I  came  to  see  you  on  an  imporant  matter  con- 
cerning Carson,"  Garner  began,  as  he  leaned  over 
the  old  man's  desk. 

Dwight  lowered  his  paper,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  sniffed. 

"  Campaign  funds,  I  reckon,"  he  said.  "  Well,  I've 
been  looking  for  some  such  demand.  In  fact,  I've 
been  astonished  that  you  fellows  haven't  been  after 
me  sooner.  I'll  do  anything  but  buy  whiskey  to  give 
away.  I'm  against  that  custom." 

360 


Mam*  Linda 

"It  wasn't  that,1'  said  Garner,  who,  usually  plain- 
spoken,  shrank  from  beating  about  the  bush  e-^en 
in  so  delicate  a  matter.  "  The  truth  is,  Carson  is  in 
a  little  trouble,  Mr.  Dwight." 

"Trouble?"  the  merchant  said,  bluntly.  "Will 
you  kindly  show  me  when  he's  ever  been  out  of  it  ? 
Since  the  day  he  was  born  it's  been  scrape  after 
scrape.  By  all  possessed,  Billy,  when  he  wasn't  a 
year  old  I  had  to  spend  fifty  dollars  to  encase  all  the 
chimneys  in  with  iron  grating  to  keep  him  from 
crawling  into  the  fire.  He's  walked  or  stumbled  into 
every  fire  that  was  made  since  then.  When  he  was 
only  twelve  a  man  out  at  the  farm  fell  in  a  well  and 
nothing  would  do  Carson  but  that  he  must  go  down 
after  him.  He  did  it,  fastened  the  only  available  rope 
about  the  man  and  sent  him  to  the  top,  and  when 
they  lowered  it  to  Carson  he  was  so  nearly  drowned 
that  he  could  hardly  sit  in  the  loop.  If  I  had  a  list 
of  the  scrapes  that  boy  went  through  at  home  and  at 
college  I'd  sell  it  to  some  blood-and-thunder  novel 
writer.  It  would  make  his  fortune.  Well,  what  is 
it  now?" 

"Carson  is  in  very  serious  trouble  I'm  afraid,  Mr. 
Dwight,"  Garner  said,  as  he  took  a  chair  and  sat 
down.  "You  will  have  to  prepare  yourself  for  a 
pretty  sharp  shock.  He  couldn't  help  it.  It  was 
pushed  on  him  to  such  an  extent  that  there  was  no 
other  way  out  of  it  and  retain  his  self-respect. 
Mr.  Dwight,  you,  of  course,  heard  of  Dan  Willis's 
death?" 

"  Yes,  and  thought  that  now  that  he  was  under  the 
sod  Carson  would  surely — " 

"The  death  was  not  an  accident,  Mr.  Dwight," 
361 


Mam'  Linda 

Garner  interrupted,  and  his  eyes  rested  steadily  on 
the  old  man's  face. 

"You  mean  that  Willis  killed  himself— that  he—" 

"I  mean  that  he  forced  Carson  to  kill  him,  Mr. 
Dwight." 

The  old  merchant's  face  was  working  as  if  in  the 
throes  of  death ;  he  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  wide  in 
growing  horror. 

"Don't,  don't  say  that,  Billy;  take  it  back!"  he 
gasped.  "Anything  but  that — anything  else  under 
God's  shining  sun." 

"You  must  try  to  be  calm,"  Garner  said,  gently. 
"It  can't  be  helped.  After  all,  the  poor  boy  was 
forced  to  do  it  to  save  his  life." 

Old  Dwight  lowered  his  face  to  his  hands  and 
groaned.  The  negro  at  the  head  of  the  gang  of 
truckmen  approached  and  leaned  in  the  doorway. 
He  had  come  to  ask  some  directions  about  the  work, 
but  with  widening  eyes  he  stood  staring.  Garner 
peremptorily  waved  him  away,  and,  rising,  he  laid 
his  hand  on  D wight's  shoulder. 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard!"  he  said,  soothingly. 
"  Remember,  there  is  a  lot  to  do,  and  that's  what  I 
came  to  see  you  about." 

Old  Dwight  raised  his  blearing  eyes,  which,  in  his 
pallid  face  now  looked  bloodshot,  and  stammered 
out: 

"  What  is  there  to  do  ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  How 
was  it  kept  till  now?  Was  he  trying  to  hide  it ?" 

"Yes" — Garner  nodded — "the  poor  boy  has  been 
bearing  it  in  secret.  He  was  afraid  the  news  of  it 
would  seriously  injure  his  mother." 

"And  it  will!"  Dwight  groaned.  "She  will  never 
362 


Mam*   Linda 

bear  it  in  the  world.  She  is  as  frail  as  a  flower. 
His  conduct  has  brought  her  within  a  hair's-breadth 
of  the  grave  more  than  once,  and  nothing  under  high 
heaven  could  save  her  from  this.  It's  awful,  awful !" 

"  I  know  it's  bad,  but  we've  got  to  save  him,  Mr. 
Dwight.  You  can't  have  your  own  son — " 

"Have  him  what?"  Dwight  rose,  swaying  from 
side  to  side,  and  stood  facing  the  lawyer. 

"  Well,  you  can't  have  him  sent  to  jail  for  murder; 
you  can't  have  him — found  guilty  and  publicly  exe- 
cuted. The  law  is  a  ticklish  business.  Absolutely 
innocent  men  have  been  hanged  time  after  time.  I 
tell  you  this  concealment  of  the  thing,  and  Carson's 
hot  fury  at  Willis  and  the  remarks  he  has  made  here 
and  there  about  him — the  fact  that  he  was  armed — 
that  there  were  no  witnesses  to  the  duel — that  he 
allowed  the  erroneous  verdict  of  the  coroner's  jury 
to  go  on  record — all  these  things,  with  a  scoundrel 
like  Wiggin  in  the  background  at  deadly  work  to 
thwart  us  and  pull  Carson  out  of  his  track,  are 
very,  very  serious.  It  is  the  most  serious  job  I 
ever  tackled  in  the  courts,  but  I'm  going  to  put  it 
through  or,  as  God  is  my  judge,  Mr.  Dwight,  I'll 
throw  up  the  law." 

Tears  were  now  flowing  freely  from  the  old  mer- 
chant's eyes  and,  unhindered,  dripped  from  his  face 
to  the  ground.  Taking  Garner's  hand  he  grasped  it 
firmly,  and  as  he  wrung  it  he  sobbed : 

"Save  my  boy,  Billy,  and  I'll  never  let  you  want 
for  means  as  long  as  you  live.  He's  all  I've  got,  and 
I'm  prouder  of  him  than  I  ever  let  folks  know.  I've 
made  a  lot  of  fuss  over  some  things  he's  done,  but 
through  it  all  I  was  proud  of  him,  proud  of  him 

363 


Mam'   Linda 

because  he  saw  deeper  into  right  than  I  did.  Even 
this  nigger  question — I  talked  against  that  a  lot, 
because  I  thought  it  would  pull  him  down,  but 
when  I  heard  how  he  got  you  all  together  in  Black- 
burn's store  that  night  and  persuaded  you  to  save  old 
Linda's  boy — when  I  learned  of  that  and  heard  the 
old  woman's  cries  of  joy,  and  saw  the  far-reaching 
effects  of  what  Carson  was  standing  for,  I  was  so 
proud  and  thankful  that  I  sneaked  off  to  my  room 
and  cried — cried  like  a  child ;  and  now  upon  it  all,  as 
his  reward,  comes  this  thing.  Oh,  Billy,  save  him! 
Don't  crush  the  poor  boy's  spirit.  I've  always  want- 
ed to  aid  you  in  some  substantial  way  for  your  in- 
terest in  him,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  this  time." 

"  I  hope  we  can  squash  the  thing  in  justice  court 
in  the  morning,  Mr.  Dwight,"  Garner  said,  con- 
fidently. "  The  chief  thing  is  for  you  to  keep  it  all 
from  your  wife  until  then,  anyway.  I  can't  do  a 
thing  with  Carson  till  his  mind  is  at  ease  over  her. 
He  worships  the  ground  she  walks  on,  Mr.  Dwight, 
and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  he  would  have  been  out 
of  this  trouble  long  ago,  for  I'm  sure  a  plain  state- 
ment of  the  matter  immediately  after  it  happened 
would  have  cleared  him  without  any  trouble.  In 
his  desire  to  spare  his  mother  he  has  complicated 
the  case,  that's  all." 

"Oh,  I  can  keep  it  from  his  mother  that  long  easy 
enough,"  said  Dwight.  "I'll  go  home  now  and  see 
to  it.  Pull  my  boy  through  this,  Billy.  If  you  have 
to  draw  on  me  for  every  cent  I've  got,  pull  him 
through.  I'm  going  to  treat  him  different  in  the 
future.  If  he  can  get  out  of  this  I  believe  he  will  be 
elected  and  make  a  great  man." 

364 


Mam'   Linda 

An  hour  later  Garner  hurried  back  to  the  office. 

"Everything  is  in  fine  shape!"  he  chuckled,  as  he 
threw  off  his  coat  and  fell  to  work  at  his  desk. 
"  Squire  Felton  has  fixed  the  hearing  for  to-morrow 
morning  at  eleven  and  Pole  Baker  has  gone  on  the 
fastest  horse  in  the  livery-stable  to  secure  witnesses 
for  our  side.  He  says  he  can  find  them  galore  in  the 
mountains,  and  your  father  is  as  solid  as  a  stone  wall. 
He  fell  all  in  a  tumble  at  first,  but  braced  up,  said 
some  beautiful  things  about  you,  and  went  home  to 
see  that  your  mother's  ears  are  closed. 

"I  saw  the  sheriff,  too.  What  do  you  think? 
When  I  told  him  the  facts,  and  said  that  you  were 
ready  to  give  yourself  up,  he  almost  cried.  Braider's 
a  trump.  He  said  that  the  law  gave  him  the  right 
to  let  you  go  on  your  own  recognizance,  and  that 
before  he'd  arrest  you  and  put  you  in  a  common  jail 
he'd  have  his  arms  and  legs  cut  off.  He  said,  know- 
ing your  heart  as  he  knew  it,  he'd  let  you  go  all  the 
way  to  Canada  without  stopping  you,  and  that  if  you 
were  bound  over  on  this  charge  he'd  throw  up  his 
job  rather  than  arrest  you.  He  told  me  he'd  been 
looking  for  it — that  he  got  wind  of  it  two  days  ago, 
and  would  have  been  in  to  see  you  about  it  if  he 
hadn't  been  afraid  you'd  misunderstand  his  coming 
at  such  a  time.  He  put  a  flea  in  my  ear,  too.  He 
said  we  must  beware  of  Wiggin.  He  has  an  idea 
that  Wiggin  has  been  on  to  this  for  sometime  and 
may  have  a  dangerous  dagger  up  his  sleeve.  The 
district-attorney  is  out  of  town  to-day  but  will  be 
back  to-night.  He's  as  straight  as  a  die  and  will 
act  fair.  I  will  see  him  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
Now,  you  brace  up.  Leave  everything  to  me.  You 

365 


Mam'    Linda 

are  as  good  a  lawyer  as  I  am,  but  you  are  too  ner- 
vous and  worried  about  your  mother  to  act  on  your 
best  judgment." 

At  this  juncture  the  colored  gardener  from  Dwight's 
came  in  with  a  note  directed  to  Garner.  Garner 
opened  it  and  read  it  while  Carson  stood  looking  on. 
It  ran : 

"  DEAR  BILLY, — Everything  is  all  right  at  this  end,  and 
will  remain  so,  at  least  till  after  the  hearing  to-morrow.  I 
enclose  my  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars  as  a  retaining 
fee.  I  always  intended  to  give  you  a  little  start,  and  I 
hope  this  will  help  you  materially.  Save  my  boy.  Save 
him,  Billy.  For  God's  sake  pull  him  through;  don't  let 
this  thing  crush  his  spirit.  He's  got  a  great  and  a  useful 
future  before  him  if  only  we  can  pull  him  through  this." 

Carson  read  the  note  through  a  blur  and  turned 
away.  He  was  standing  alone  in  the  dreary  little 
consultation-room  a  few  minutes  later,  when  Garner 
came  to  him,  old  Dwight's  check  fluttering  in  his 
hands. 

"Your  dad's  the  right  sort,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  the  infant  fires  of  avarice.  "One 
only  has  to  know  how  to  understand  him.  The  size 
of  this  check  is  out  of  all  reason,  but  if  I  can  do  what 
he  wishes  to-morrow,  I'll  not  only  accept  it,  but  I'll 
put  it  to  a  glorious  use.  Carson,  there  is  a  young 
woman  in  this  town  whom  I'll  ask  to  marry  me,  and 
I'll  buy  a  home  with  this  to  start  life  on." 

"Ida  Tarpley?"  said  Carson. 

"She's  the  one,"  Garner  said,  with  a  bare  touch 
of  rising  color.  "I  think  she  would  take  me,  from 
a  little  remark  she  dropped,  and  it  was  through  you 
that  I  found  her." 

366 


Mam'    Linda 

"Through  me?"  Dwight  said. 

"  Yes,  it  was  in  talking  of  your  ups  and  downs  that 
I  first  saw  into  her  wonderfully  sweet  and  sym- 
pathetic nature.  Carson,  if  you  get  your  walking- 
papers  in  the  morning,  I  won't  wait  ten  minutes  be- 
fore I  pop  the  question.  The  lack  of  means  was  the 
only  thing  that  kept  me  from  proposing  the  last  time 
I  saw  her." 


XLV 

JHE  next  morning  when  Garner  reached 
the  office,  he  found  Carson  surrounded 
by  "the  gang,"  Blackburn  was  just 
leaving,  his  mild  eyes  fixed  gloomily 
,on  the  sidewalk,  and  Wade  Tingle, 
Keith  Gordon,  and  Bob  Smith  sat  about  the  office 
with  long-drawn,  stoical  faces. 

"  I  was  just  telling  Carson  that  it  will  be  a  walk- 
over in  court  this  morning,"  Wade  was  saying,  com- 
fortingly, as  Garner  sat  down  at  his  desk,  his  great 
brow  clouded.  " Don't  you  think  so,  Garner?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  boys,"  Garner  an- 
swered, irritably,  "it's  too  important  a  matter  to 
make  light  over,  and  I  want  you  fellows  to  clear  out 
so  we  can  get  to  work.  I've  got  to  talk  to  Carson, 
and  I  can't  do  it  with  so  many  here.  I'm  not  accus- 
tomed to  thinking  with  a  crowd  around." 

"You  bet  we'll  skedaddle,  then,  old  man,"  said 
Keith;  "but  we'll  be  at  the— the  hearing. " 

When  they  had  gone  droopingly  out,  Carson  came 
from  the  window  at  which  he  had  been  standing  and 
looked  Garner  over,  noting  with  surprise  that  the 
lower  parts  of  the  legs  of  his  partner's  trousers  were 
dusty  and  his  boots  unpolished.  The  shirt  Garner 
wore  had  sleeves  that  were  too  long  for  his  arms, 
and  a  pair  of  soiled  cuffs  covered  more  than  half  of 

368 


Mam'    Linda 

the  small  hands.  His  standing  collar  had  become 
crumpled,  and  his  ever-present  black  silk  necktie, 
with  its  unshapely  bow  and  brown,  frayed  edges,  had 
slipped  out  of  place.  His  hair  was  awry,  his  whole 
manner  nervous  and  excitable. 

"Keith  says  you  didn't  sleep  at  the  den  last 
night,"  Dwight  said,  tentatively.  "Did  you  go  out 
to  your  father's?" 

Garner  seemed  to  hesitate  for  an  instant,  then  he 
crossed  his  dusty  legs  and  began  to  draw  upon  and 
tie  more  firmly  the  loose  strings  of  his  worn  and 
cracked  patent-leather  shoes. 

"Look  here,  Carson,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
fumblingly  tied  the  last  knot,  "you  are  too  strong 
and  brave  a  man  to  be  treated  in  the  wishy-washy 
way  a  woman's  treated.  Besides,  you'll  have  to 
know  the  truth  sooner  or  later,  anyway,  and  you 
may  as  well  be  prepared  for  it." 

"Something  gone  wrong?"  Dwight  asked,  calmly. 

"Worse  than  I  dreamed  was  possible,"  Garner 
said.  "  I  thought  we'd  have  comparatively  smooth 
sailing,  but  —  well,  it's  your  danged  luck!  Pole 
Baker  come  in  this  morning  about  two  o'clock. 
I'd  taken  a  room  at  the  hotel  to  get  away  from  those 
chattering  boys  so  I  could  think.  I  couldn't  sleep, 
and  was  trying  to  get  myself  straight  with  a  dime 
novel  that  wouldn't  hold  my  attention,  when  Pole 
came  and  found  me.  Carson,  that  rascal  Wiggin  is 
the  blackest  devil  that  ever  walked  the  earth  in 
human  shape." 

"He's  been  at  work,"  said  Carson,  calmly.  "I 
see." 

"  You'd  think  so,"  said  Garner.     "  Pole  says  wher- 
369 


Mam*   Linda 

ever  he  went,  expecting  to  lay  hands  on  good  wit- 
nesses who  had  heard  Willis  make  threats,  he  found 
that  Wiggin  had  got  there  first  and  put  up  a  tale 
that  closed  their  mouths  like  clams." 

"  I  see, "  said  Dwight.     "  He  frightened  them  off. ' ' 

"I  should  think  he  did.  He  put  them  on  their 
guard,  telling  them,  without  hinting  at  any  trouble 
of  yours,  that  if  they  had  a  call  to  court,  of  any  sort 
whatsoever,  to  get  out  of  it,  as  it  would  only  be  a 
trick  on  our  part  to  implicate  them  in  the  lynching 
business." 

"So  we  have  no  witnesses,"  said  Dwight. 

"Not  even  a  photograph  of  one!"  replied  Garner, 
bitterly.  "I  sent  Pole  right  out  again,  tired  as  he 
was,  in  another  direction.  He  had  a  faint  idea  that 
he  might  persuade  Willis's  mother  to  testify,  though 
I  told  him  he  was  on  a  wild-goose  chase,  for  not  one 
mother  in  ten  thousand  would  turn  over  a  hand  to 
aid  a  man  who  —  a  man  under  just  such  circum- 
stances. Then  I  got  a  horse — " 

"  At  that  time  of  night  ?"  Carson  cried. 

"  What  was  the  difference  ?  I  couldn't  sleep,  any- 
way, and  the  cool  night  air  made  me  feel  better,  but  I 
failed.  The  men  I  saw  admitted  that  they  had 
heard  Dan  talk  some,  but  they  couldn't  recall  any 
absolute  threats.  When  I  got  back  to  town  it  was 
eight  o'clock.  I  ate  a  snack  at  the  restaurant  and 
then  hurried  off  to  see  the  district-attorney.  May- 
hew  is  a  good  man,  Carson,  and  a  fair  man.  I  think 
he  is  the  most  honest  and  conscientious  solicitor 
we've  ever  had.  But  right  there  I  saw  the  track  of 
your  guardian  angel.  As  early  as  it  was,  Wiggin 
had  been  there  before  me.  Mayhew  wouldn't  ad- 

37° 


Mam'    Linda 

mit  that  he  had,  but  I  knew  it  from  his  reserved 
manner.  Why,  I  expected  to  see  the  solicitor  take 
the  whole  thing  lightly,  you  know,  considering  your 
standing  at  the  bar  and  your  family  name,  but  I 
found  him — well,  entirely  too  serious  about  it.  He 
really  talked  as  if  it  were  the  gravest  thing  that  had 
ever  happened.  I  saw  that  he  was  badly  prejudiced, 
and  I  tried  to  disabuse  his  mind  of  some  hidden  im- 
pressions, but  he  wouldn't  talk  much.  All  at  once, 
however,  he  looked  me  in  the  face  and  asked  me 
how  on  earth  any  sensible  man,  familiar  with  the  law, 
could  keep  a  thing  like  that  concealed  as  long  as  you 
did.  I  told  him,  in  as  plausible  and  direct  a  way  as 
I  could,  how  you  felt  in  regard  to  your  mother's  con- 
dition. He  listened  attentively,  then  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  said : '  Why,  Garner,  Dr.  Stone  told 
my  wife  the  other  day  that  Mrs.  Dwight  was  im- 
proving rapidly.  Surely  she  wasn't  as  bad  off  as 
all  that.'  My  Lord!  I  was  set  back  so  badly  that 
I  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  He  went  on  then  to 
tell  me  that  folks  through  the  country  had  been 
saying  that  towns-people  always  managed  to  avoid 
the  law  by  some  hook  or  crook,  or  influence,  or 
money,  and  that  he  was  not  going  to  subject  himself 
to  public  criticism  even  in  the  case  of  a  man  as 
popular  as  you  are." 

"That  was  Wiggin's  work!"  Carson  said,  his  lips 
pressed  tightly  together  as  he  turned  back  to  the 
window. 

"  Yes,  that's  his  method.  He's  the  trickiest  scamp 
unhung.  Of  course,  he  can't  hope  to  see  you  actually 
convicted  of  this  thing,  but  he  does  evidently  think 
he  can  have  you  bound  over  to  trial  at  the  next  term 


Mam*    Linda 

of  court,  and  beat  you  at  the  polls  in  the  mean  time. 
He  thinks  with  his  negro  incendiary  speeches  to  rouse 
the  lowest  element,  and  the  charges  that  you've  mur- 
dered one  of  your  own  race  to  inflame  the  prejudices 
of  others,  that  he  can  snow  you  under  good  and  deep. 
But  we've  got  to  make  the  best  of  it.  There  is  no 
shirking  or  postponing  of  this  hearing  to-day.  Even 
if  the  very — the  very  worst  comes,"  Garner  finished, 
slowly,  as  if  shrinking  from  the  words  he  was  ut- 
tering, "we  can  give  any  bonds  the  court  may  de- 
mand." 

"  But " — and  D  wight  turned  from  the  window  and 
stood  before  his  friend — "  what  if  they  refuse  to  take 
bonds  at  all  and  I  have  to  go  to  jail?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  cross  a  bridge  like  that 
for?"  Garner  demanded,  plainly  angered  by  the 
sheer  possibility  in  question. 

Dwight  leaned  over  Garner  and  put  his  hand  on 
the  dusty  shoulder.  "  That  would  kill  my  mother, 
old  man!" 

"Do  you  think  so,  Carson?"  Garner  was  deeply 
moved. 

"  I  know  it,  Garner,  and  her  blood  would  be  on 
my  head." 

"Well,  we  must  win!"  Garner  said,  and  a  look  of 
firm  determination  came  into  his  eyes;  "that  is  all 
there  is  about  it.  We  must  win.  Eternal  truth 
and  justice  are  on  our  side.  We  must  win." 


XLVI 

|HE  big,  square  court -room  was  filled 
to  overflowing  when  at  the  last  mo- 
ment Carson  and  Garner  arrived.  Just 
inside  the  door  they  found  old  Dwight 
standing,  his  battered  silk  hat  in  his 
hand,  and  with  an  air  of  unwonted  humility  upon 
him,  patiently  awaiting  their  coming. 

"  Is  everything  all  right?"  he  anxiously  whispered 
to  Garner,  as  he  reached  out  and  caught  his  son's 
hand  and  held  on  to  it. 

"Yes,  all  right,  Mr.  Dwight,"  Garner  replied; 
"and  is — is  your  wife — " 

"Yes,  we  are  safe  on  that  score,"  the  old  man 
said,  encouragingly,  to  Carson.  "I  only  slipped 
away  for  a  minute.  I  won't  wait  here,  but  will  hurry 
back  and  stand  guard.  God  bless  you,  my  boy." 

When  Dwight  had  turned  towards  the  door  and 
was  moving  away,  Carson  glanced  over  the  crowd- 
ed room.  All  eyes  were  fixed,  it  seemed  to  him, 
anxiously  and  sympathetically  on  his  face.  As  he 
passed  through  the  central  aisle  to  reach  the  railed- 
in  enclosure  where,  at  his  elevated  desk,  the  magis- 
trate sat,  gravely  consulting  with  the  State  solicitor, 
Carson's  mind  was  gloomily  active  with  the  numer- 
ous instances  in  which,  to  his  knowledge,  innocent 
men  had  been  convicted  by  the  complication  of 

373 


Mam'    Linda 

circumstantial  evidence,  in  a  chair  which  Braider 
was  solicitously  placing  near  that  of  Garner,  the 
young  man's  glance  again  swept  the  big  room.  On 
the  last  row  of  benches  sat  Linda,  Uncle  Lewis,  and 
Pete  in  the  company  of  other  negro  friends  of  his. 
Their  fixed  and  awed  facial  expressions  added  to  his 
gloom.  Near  the  railing  sat  "the  gang  " — Gordon, 
Tingle,  and  Bob  Smith  —  their  faces  long  -  drawn. 
Behind  them  sat  Helen  and  her  father,  with  Ida 
Tarpley.  Catching  Helen's  anxious  glance,  Carson 
tried  to  smile  lightly  as  he  responded  to  her  bow, 
but  there  was  something  in  his  act  which  seemed  to 
him  to  be  empty  pretence  and  rather  unworthy  of 
one  in  his  position.  Guilty  or  innocent  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law,  he  told  himself  he  was  there  to  rid  his 
character  of  the  gravest  charge  that  could  be  made 
against  a  human  being,  and  from  the  indications,  as 
seen  by  the  shrewd  Garner,  he  was  not  likely  to 
leave  the  room  a  free  man.  He  shuddered  as  he 
grimly  pictured  Braider — the  feeling,  sympathetic 
Braider — coming  to  him  there  before  all  those  eyes 
and  formally  placing  him  under  arrest  at  the  order 
of  the  court.  He  sank  to  the  lowest  ebb  of  despair 
as  he  pictured  his  mother's  hearing  of  the  news. 
Almost  in  a  daze  Carson  sat  dumb  and  blind  to  the 
formal  proceedings.  Like  a  child,  he  felt  a  sooth- 
ing comfort  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was  leaning 
on  such  a  skilled  friend  as  that  of  the  hardened  young 
lawyer  at  his  side,  and  yet  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  was  pitying  himself.  Things  had  really  gone 
hard  with  him.  He  had  tried  his  best  to  do  the 
right  thing  of  late,  but  fate  had  at  last  overpowered 
him.  He  was  losing  faith  in  the  impulses  which  had 

374 


Mam'    Linda 

led  him,  blind  under  the  blaze  of  youthful  enthu- 
siasm, to  that  seat  here  under  the  cold,  accusing  eye 
of  the  law. 

He  was  drawn  out  of  his  lethargy  by  the  clear, 
ringing,  confident  voice  of  the  solicitor.  It  was  a 
strong,  an  utterly  heartless  speech,  "the  gang" 
thought.  Duty  to  the  State  and  public  protection 
was  its  key-note.  Personally,  Mayhew  had  nothing 
but  the  kindliest  feeling  and  strongest  admiration 
for  the  defendant.  He  belonged  to  one  of  the  best 
and  oldest  families  in  the  South,  and  was  a  man  of 
undaunted  courage  and  remarkable  brains.  But 
with  all  that,  Mayhew  believed,  as  he  tugged  at  his 
heavy  mustache  and  stared  with  confident  eyes  at 
the  magistrate,  he  could  show  that  lurking  under 
the  creditable  and  refined  exterior  of  the  defendant 
was  a  keenly  vindictive  nature — a  nature  that  was 
maddened  beyond  forbearance  by  opposition.  The 
solicitor  promised  to  show  by  competent  witnesses, 
when  the  matter  was  brought  to  trial,  that  Car- 
son Dwight  believed  —  mark  the  word  believed — 
without  an  iota  of  proof,  that  Dan  Willis  had  fired 
upon  him  in  the  mob  that  was  attempting  to  lynch 
Pete  Warren.  Believing  this,  your  honor,  I  say, 
with  no  sort  of  proof,  I  think  the  State  will  have  no 
trouble  in  establishing  the  fact  that  Dwight  had 
sufficient  motive  for  what  was  done,  and  that  he  de- 
liberately and  with  aforethought  went  armed  with 
no  other  intent  than  to  kill  Willis.  Furthermore, 
Mayhew  could  show,  he  declared,  that  Dwight  had 
carefully  concealed  the  deed,  letting  it  go  out  to  the 
world  that  the  finding  of  the  coroner's  jury  was  cor- 
rect, and  making  no  statement  to  the  contrary  till 
*s  375 


Mam*    Linda 

he  was  driven  to  it  by  the  encroachments  of  verifi- 
able rumor  and  the  certainty  of  adverse  action  by 
the  grand  jury.  That  being  the  status  of  the  case, 
the  solicitor  could  only  urge  upon  the  court  its  duty 
to  hold  Carson  Dwight  on  the  charge  of  murder  in 
the  first  degree. 

Deep  in  his  slough  of  depression,  Dwight,  looking 
over  the  breathless  audience,  noticed  the  serious 
faces  he  knew  and  loved.  Helen  was  deathly  pale, 
and  her  father  sat  with  bowed  head,  fingering  his 
gold-headed  ebony  cane.  Keith  Gordon's  face  was 
as  full  of  reproach  for  what  the  solicitor  had  said 
as  that  of  a  grief -stricken  woman.  Wade  Tingle  sat 
flushed  with  rebellious  anger,  and  Bob  Smith,  not 
grasping  the  full  import  of  the  high-sounding  words, 
stared  from  under  his  neatly  plastered  hair  like  a 
wondering  child  at  a  funeral.  It  was  Mam'  Linda's 
almost  savage  glare  that  more  firmly  fixed  Carson's 
wandering  glance.  She  sat  there,  her  visage  full  of 
half -savage  passion,  her  large  lip  hanging  low  and 
quivering,  her  breast  heaving,  her  eyes  gleaming. 

Carson  had  not  the  heart  to  follow  Garner's  weak 
and  inadequate  plea  as  the  lawyer  stood,  his  small 
hands  clutched  and  bloodless  behind  him.  He  had 
not  been  able,  he  said,  to  reach  the  witnesses  he  had 
expected  to  produce,  who  would  swear  that  Dan 
Willis,  time  after  time,  had  pursued  the  defendant 
and  made  threats  against  his  life,  but  he  felt  that  a 
calm  statement  of  Carson  D wight's  would  be  be- 
lieved, and  that — 

Here  there  was  a  commotion  in  the  room.  The 
bailiff  at  the  door  was  talking  loudly  to  some  one. 
The  magistrate  rapped  vigorously  for  order,  and  in 

376 


Mam'    Linda 

the  pause  that  ensued  Pole  Baker  came  striding 
down  the  aisle,  leading  a  little  woman  wearing  a 
black  cotton  sun-bonnet  and  dress  of  the  same 
material.  Leaving  her  standing,  Baker  approached 
Garner  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  Then,  with  a 
suddenly  kindling  face,  the  lawyer  turned  and  whis- 
pered to  the  woman.  A  moment  later  he  drew  him- 
self up  to  his  full  height  and  said,  in  a  clear,  confident 
voice  that  reached  all  parts  of  the  room : 

"  Your  honor,  I  have  a  witness  here  that  I  want  to 
have  sworn." 

The  district-attorney  stood  up  and  stared  curious- 
ly at  the  woman.  "  If  I'm  not  mistaken  that's  Dan 
Willis's  mother,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "She  is  a 
witness  I'm  looking  for  myself." 

"Well,  you  are  welcome  to  what  she'll  testify," 
Garner  dryly  retorted. 

A  moment  later  the  little  woman  was  on  the  stand, 
holding  her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  her  small,  wizened 
face  as  colorless  as  parchment,  her  black  hair  brushed 
as  smoothly  as  patent  leather  down  over  her  brow 
and  tied  in  a  small,  tight  knot  behind  her  head. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Willis,"  Garner  went  on,  casting  a 
significant  glance  at  Carson,  who  was  gazing  at  him 
in  growing  wonder,  "just  tell  the  court  in  your  own 
way  what  happened  at  your  house  the  day  your  son 
met  his  death." 

The  room  was  very  still  when  she  began  in  a  low, 
quivering  voice  which,  gradually  steadied  itself  as 
she  continued. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Wiggin  come  to  the  fence 
while  we-all  was  eatin'  our  breakfast,  an'  called 
Danny  out  an'  they  had  a  talk  near  the  cow-lot. 

377 


Mam'    Linda 

I  don't  know  what  was  said,  but  I  was  sorry  they 
got  together  for  Mr.  Wiggin  always  upset  Danny  an' 
started  'im  to  drinkin'  and  rantin'  agin  Mr.  D wight 
here  in  town."  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
Garner,  leaning  easily  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  said, 
encouragingly : 

"All  right,  Mrs.  Willis,  you  are  doing  very  well. 
Now,  just  go  ahead  and  tell  the  court  all  that  took 
place  to  the  best  of  your  recollection." 

"Well,  thar  wasn't  much  to  recollect  that  hap- 
pened right  thar  at  home,"  the  witness  went  on, 
plaintively;  "of  course,  the  shootin'  tuck  place  about 
a  mile  from  thar  on  the— 

"Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Willis,"  Garner  interrupted. 
"  You  are  getting  the  cart  before  the  horse.  I  want 
you  to  tell  his  honor  how  your  son  acted  when  he 
came  into  the  house  after  his  talk  with  Mr.  Wiggin." 

"  Why,  when  Danny  fust  come  in,  Mr.  Garner,  he 
went  to  the  bureau  drawyer  and  tuck  out  his  revolver 
an*  loaded  it  thar  before  us,  cussin'  at  every  breath 
agin  Mr.  Dwight.  I  tried  to  calm  'im  down,  an'  so 
did  my  brother  George,  but  he  was  as  nigh  crazy  as 
I  ever  saw  any  human  bein'  in  my  life.  He  said  he 
was  goin'  straight  to  Darley  an'  kill  Carson  Dwight, 
if  he  had  to  go  to  his  daddy's  house  an'  drag  'im  out 
of  his  bed.  He  said  he'd  tried  it  once  an'  slipped 
up,  but  that  if  he  missed  again  he'd  kill  hisse'f  in 
disgust." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Garner  said,  in  the  pause  that 
ensued.  He  stroked  his  smooth  chin  with  his  taper- 
ing fingers  and  opened  and  shut  his  mouth,  and  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling  as  if  the  witness  had  made 
the  most  ordinary  sort  of  statement.  He  leaned 

378 


Mam'    Linda 

again  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  then  lowering  his 
glance  to  the  face  of  the  witness,  he  asked : 

"Did  you  gather  from  Dan's  talk  that  morning, 
Mrs.  Willis,  when  it  was  that  he  made  the  first  at- 
tempt on  the  life  of  Carson  Dwight  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  did  then,"  the  woman 
answered;  "but  he  told  us  about  it  the  day  after  he 
fired  the  shot." 

"Oh,  he  did!"  Garner's  face  was  still  a  study  of 
guileless  indifference,  and  he  stroked  his  chin  again, 
his  eyes  now  on  the  floor,  his  arms  folded  across  his 
breast.  "What  day  was  that,  Mrs.  Willis?" 

"Why,  the  day  after  Mr.  Dwight  kept  the  mob 
from  hangin'  old  Lindy  Warren's  boy." 

Profound  astonishment  was  now  visible  on  every 
countenance  except  that  of  Garner.  "  I  never  knew 
positively  before  who  fired  that  shot,"  he  said,  care- 
lessly, "  though,  of  course,  I  had  an  idea  who  did  it. 
So  Dan  admitted  that?" 

"Yes,  he  told  us  about  that,  and  about  tryin'  to 
git  at  Mr.  Dwight  several  other  times." 

"  I  reckon  you  are  satisfied  in  your  own  mind  that 
if  Mr.  Dwight  hadn't  defended  himself  Dan  would 
have  killed  him?"  Garner  pursued,  adroitly. 

"I  know  he  would,  Mr.  Garner,  an'  when  I  heard 
the  report  that  Danny  had  shot  hisse'f  by  accident, 
while  he  was  practisin'  with  his  pistol,  I  was  recon- 
ciled to  it.  I  didn't  think  Mr.  Dwight  was  to  blame. 
I  always  thought  he  was  doin'  the  best  he  could,  an* 
that  politics  caused  the  bad  blood.  I  always  liked 
'im,  to  tell  the  truth.  I'd  heard  that  he  was  a 
friend  to  the  pore  an'  humble,  even  to  pore  old  nig- 
gers, an'  somehow  I  felt  relieved  when  I  heard  he'd 

379 


Mam'    Linda 

escaped  my  boy.  I  knowed  Danny  meant  murder 
an'  that  no  good  could  come  of  it.  I'd  a  sight  ruther 
know  a  child  of  mine  was  dead  an'  in  the  hands  of 
his  Maker  than  tied  up  in  jail  waitin'  to  be  publicly 
hung  in  the  end.  No,  it  is  better  like  it  is,  though  if 
I  may  be  allowed  to  say  so,  I  can't  for  the  life  of 
me,  understand  what  you-all  have  got  Mr.  Dwight 
hauled  up  here  like  this,  when  his  mother  is  in  sech 
a  delicate  condition.  Good  Lord,  he  hain't  done 
nothin'  to  be  tried  for!" 

"That  will  do,  Mrs.  Willis,"  Garner  was  heard  to 
say,  his  voice  harshly  stirring  the  emotion-packed 
stillness  of  the  room;  "that  will  do,  unless  my 
brother  Mayhew  wants  to  ask  you  some  questions." 

"The  State  has  no  case,  your  honor,"  Mayhew 
said,  with  a  sickly  smile.  "The  truth  is,  I  think 
we've  all  been  imbibing  too  freely  of  politics.  I  con- 
fess I've  listened  to  Wiggin  myself.  It  looks  like, 
failing  to  get  Dan  Willis  to  kill  Dwight,  he's  set 
about  trying  to  have  it  done  by  law.  Your  honor, 
the  State  is  out  of  the  case." 

There  was  a  pause  of  astonishment  and  then  the 
truth  burst  upon  the  audience.  Realizing  that  Car- 
son Dwight  was  more  than  a  free  man,  vindicated, 
restored  to  them,  "the  gang"  rose  as  a  man  and 
yelled.  Led  by  Pole  Baker  and  the  enthusiastic 
Braider,  they  pressed  around  him,  climbing  over  the 
railing  and  crushing  chairs  to  splinters.  Then,  amid 
the  shouts  and  glad  tears  of  the  spectators,  the  most 
popular  man  in  the  county  was  raised  perforce  upon 
the  stout  shoulders  of  Baker  and  Braider  and  borne 
down  the  aisle  towards  the  door. 

Above  the  heads  of  all,  Carson,  flushed  with  con- 

380 


Mam'    Linda 

fusion,  glanced  over  the  room.  Immediately  in 
front  of  him  stood  Helen.  She  was  looking  straight 
and  eagerly  at  him,  her  face  aglow,  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  paused  with  her  father  just  outside 
the  door,  and  as  "the  gang"  bore  their  struggling 
and  protesting  hero  past,  she  raised  her  hand  to  him. 
Blushing  in  fresh  embarrassment,  he  took  it,  only  to 
have  it  torn  from  him  the  next  instant. 

"Let  me  down,  Pole!"  he  cried. 

"No,  sir,  we  don't  let  you  down!"  Pole  shouted. 
"We've  got  it  in  for  you.  We  are  goin'  to  lynch 
you!" 

The  crowd,  appreciating  the  joke,  thereupon  raised 
the  queerest  cry  that  ever  burst  from  breasts  sur- 
charged with  joy. 

"Lynch  him!"  they  yelled.     "Lynch  him!" 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Carson  went  home.  His 
father  was  at  the  fence  looking  for  him.  He  had 
heard  the  news  and  his  old  face  was  beaming  with 
joy  as  he  opened  the  gate  for  his  son  and  took  him 
into  his  arms. 

"How's  mother?"  was  Carson's  first  inquiry. 

"She's  all  right  and  she  knows,  too?" 

"She  knows!"  Carson  exclaimed,  aghast. 

1 '  Yes,  old  Mrs.  Parsons  was  the  first  to  bring  me 
the  news,  and  she  assured  me  she  could  impart  it  to 
your  mother  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  shock  her  at 
all." 

"And  you  let  her?"  Carson  said,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  and  she  did  the  slickest  piece  of  work  I  ever 
heard  of.  I  knew  she  was  considered  a  wonderful 
woman,  but  she's  the  smoothest  article  I  ever  met. 
I  laughed  till  I  cried.  I  was  in  the  mood  for  laugh- 

381 


Mam'    Linda 

ing,  anyway.  Mrs.  Parsons  began  by  adroitly  work- 
ing your  mother  up  to  such  a  pitch  of  fury  against 
Willis  for  his  nagging  pursuit  of  you  that  your 
mother  could  have  shot  him  herself,  and  then,  in  an 
off-hand  way,  Mrs.  Parsons  led  on  to  the  meeting 
between  you.  Willis  had  his  gun  in  your  face,  and 
was  about  to  pull  the  trigger,  when  your  pistol  went 
off  and  saved  your  life.  She  went  on  to  say  that 
Dan's  mother  had  just  been  to  the  court-house  tes- 
tifying that  her  son  had  tried  to  murder  you,  and 
that  she  didn't  blame  you  in  the  slightest.  I  de- 
clare, Mrs.  Parsons  actually  made  it  appear  that 
Willis  was  on  trial  instead  of  you.  Anyway,  it's 
all  right.  We've  got  nothing  to  fear  now." 


XLVII 

IX  weeks  later  the  election  came  off. 
It  was  no  "walk -over"  for  Carson. 
Wiggin  seemed  only  more  desperately 
spurred  on  by  every  exposition  of  his 
underhand  chicanery.  He  died  hard. 
He  fought  with  his  nose  in  the  mire,  but,  throwing 
honor  to  the  winds,  he  fought.  Carson  Dwight's 
stand  on  the  negro  question  was  Wiggin's  strongest 
weapon.  It  was  a  torch  with  which  the  candidate 
could  inflame  the  breasts  of  a  certain  class  of  men  at 
a  moment's  notice.  He  was  a  crude  but  powerful 
speaker,  and  wherever  he  went  he  left  smouldering 
or  raging  fires.  Pledged  to  him  were  the  lowest 
order  of  men,  and  they  fought  for  him  and  worked 
for  him  like  bandits  in  the  dark.  Over  these  men 
he  wielded  a  sword  of  fear.  Carson  Dwight's  in- 
tention in  getting  to  the  legislature  was  to  make 
laws  against  lynching,  and  every  man  who  had  ever 
protected  his  home  and  fireside  by  summary  justice 
to  the  black  brutes  would  be  ferreted  out  and  im- 
prisoned for  life.  But  Dwight's  more  gentle  and 
saner  reasoning,  backed  by  his  heroic  conduct  of  the 
past,  held  sway.  He  was  elected.  He  was  not  only 
elected,  but,  as  the  exponent  of  a  new  issue,  the  news 
of  his  election  was  telegraphed  all  over  the  South. 
He  had  written  some  articles  for  Wade  Tingle's 

383 


Mam*   Linda 

paper  which  had  been  widely  copied  and  commented 
on,  and  his  political  course  was  watched  by  many 
conservative  thinkers,  who  prophesied  a  remarkable 
career  for  him.  He  was  a  fearless  man,  with  a  new 
voice,  who  had  taken  a  radical  stand  based  on 
humanitarian  and  Christian  principles.  Family  his- 
tory was  simply  repeating  itself.  His  ancestors 
had  stood  for  the  humane  treatment  of  the  slaves 
thrust  upon  them  by  circumstances,  and  he,  in  the 
same  hereditary  spirit,  was  standing  for  kind,  just 
treatment  of  those  ex-slaves  and  their  descendants. 
No  man  who  knew  him  would  have  accused  him  of 
believing  in  the  social  equality  of  the  races  any  more 
than  they  would  earlier  have  brought  the  same 
charge  against  his  ancestors. 

On  the  night  the  returns  were  brought  in  and  it 
was  known  that  he  had  triumphed,  "the  gang"  had 
arranged  a  big  pine  torch -light  procession,  and  it 
passed  with  its  blaze  and  din  through  every  street 
of  the  town.  Carson  was  at  home  when  they  lined 
themselves,  in  all  their  tooting  of  horns,  beating  of 
drums,  and  general  clatter,  along  the  front  fence. 
The  town  brass-band  did  its  best,  and  every  sort  of 
transparency  that  the  inventive  mind  of  Wade  Tingle 
could  devise  was  borne,  as  if  by  the  smoke  and  heat 
of  the  torches  themselves,  above  the  long  procession. 

Garner  separated  himself  from  the  throng,  and, 
clad  in  a  new  and  costly  suit  of  clothes,  a  tribute 
to  his  engagement  to  Miss  Tarpley — a  fine  black 
frock-coat,  broadcloth  trousers,  and  a  silk  hat — he 
made  his  way  into  the  house  and  up  the  stairs  to  the 
veranda  above,  where  Carson  and  his  mother  and 
father  were  standing. 

384 


Mam'   Linda 

"The  boys  want  a  speech,"  he  said  to  Carson, 
"and  you've  got  to  give  them  the  best  in  your  shop. 
By  George,  they  deserve  it. ' '  Carson  was  demurring, 
but  his  mother  pressed  him  to  comply,  and  Garner, 
with  his  stateliest  strut,  his  coat  buttoned  so  tightly 
at  the  waist  that  the  tails  spread  out  as  if  inviting 
him  to  sit  down,  and  his  hat  held  on  a  level  with  his 
left  shoulder,  advanced  to  the  balustrade,  and  in  his 
happiest  mood  introduced  the  man  who,  he  declared, 
was  the  broadest -minded,  the  most  conscientious 
and  fearless  candidate  that  ever  trod  the  boards  of  a 
political  platform.  They  were  to  receive  the  ex- 
pression of  gratitude  and  appreciation  of  a  man  whose 
name  was  written  upon  every  heart  present.  Garner 
had  the  distinguished  honor  and  pride  to  introduce 
his  law  partner  and  close  friend,  the  Hon.  Carson 
Dwight. 

Carson  never  spoke  better  in  his  life.  What  he 
said  was  from  a  boyish  heart  overflowing  with  con- 
tent and  good -will.  When  he  had  finished  Mrs. 
Dwight  rose  from  her  chair  and  proudly  stood  by 
his  side.  The  cheers  at  her  appearance  rent  the  air. 
Then  Garner  pushed  old  Dwight  forward  from  the 
shadow  of  a  column  where  he  was  standing,  and  as 
the  old  gentleman  awkwardly  bowed  his  greeting, 
the  cheers  broke  out  afresh.  Bob  Smith,  who  was  a 
sort  of  drum-major,  with  a  ribbon-wound  walking- 
cane  for  a  baton,  struck  up,  "  For  he's  a  jolly  good 
fellow,"  and  as  the  crowd  sang  it  to  the  spluttering 
and  jangling  accompaniment  of  the  band  the  pro- 
cession moved  down  the  street. 

At  this  juncture  Major  Warren  came  up  to  offer 
his  congratulations.  Carson  was  standing  a  few 

385 


Mam'    Linda 

minutes  later  talking  to  Garner.  He  was  trying  to 
hear  what  his  partner  was  saying  in  his  bubbling 
and  enthusiastic  way  about  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Tarpley,  but  he  found  it  difficult  to  listen,  for  the 
conversation  between  his  mother  and  Major  Warren 
had  fixed  his  attention. 

"  I  tried  to  get  her  to  come  over  to  hear  the  speech, 
but  she  wouldn't,"  the  Major  was  saying.  "I  can't 
make  her  out  here  lately,  Mrs.  Dwight.  She  used  to 
be  so  different  in  anything  concerning  Carson.  She  is 
now  actually  hiding  behind  the  vines  on  the  veranda. ' ' 

"  Perhaps  she  is  so  much  in  love  with  Mr.  Sanders 
that  she—" 

"That's  the  very  point,"  the  Major  broke  in. 
"  She  won't  talk  about  Sanders,  and  she — well,  really, 
I  think  the  two  have  quit  writing  to  each  other." 

"Perhaps  she — oh,  do  you  think,  Major,  that — " 

Carson  heard  no  more ;  his  father  had  come  forward 
and  was  talking  to  Garner. 

Carson  slipped  away.  He  glided  down  the  stairs 
and  out  at  the  door  on  the  side  next  to  Warren's  and 
rapidly  strode  across  the  grass.  Passing  through  the 
little  gateway,  he  reached  the  veranda  and  the  vines 
concealing  the  spot  where  the  hammock  was  hanging. 
He  saw  no  one  at  first  and  heard  no  sound.  Then 
he  called  out: 

"Helen!" 

"What  is  it?"  a  timid,  even  startled  voice  from 
the  vines  answered,  and  Helen  looked  out. 

" Why  didn't  you  come  over  with  your  father?" 
Carson  asked.  "  He  said  he  wanted  you  to,  but  you 
preferred  to  stay  here." 

"I  did  want  to  congratulate  you,"  Helen,  said,  as 
386 


Mam'    Linda 

he  came  up  the  steps  and  they  stood  face  to  face. 
"I'm  so  happy  over  it,  Carson,  that  really  I  was 
afraid  I'd  show  it  too  much." 

"I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way,"  he  said,  awkwardly. 
"  It  was  a  hard  fight,  and  I  thought  several  times  I 
was  beaten." 

"What  did  you  ever  touch  that  wasn't  hard?" 
she  said,  with  a  sweet,  reminiscent  laugh. 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  he  said: 
"I'm  not  quite  satisfied  with  your  reason  for  not 
coming  over  with  your  father  just  now — really,  you 
see,  it  is  in  a  line  with  your  actions  for  the  last  six 
weeks.  Helen,  you  actually  have  avoided  me." 

"On  the  contrary,"  she  said,  "you  have  made 
it  a  point  to  stay  away  from  me." 

"Well,"  he  sighed,  "considering,  you  know,  San- 
ders and  his  claims,  I  really  thought  I'd  better  keep 
my  place." 

"Oh!"  Helen  exclaimed,  and  then  she  sank  deeper 
into  the  vines. 

For  one  instant  he  stood  trembling  before  her,  and 
then  he  asked,  boldly:  "Helen,  tell  me,  are  you  en- 
gaged to  him?" 

She  made  no  answer  for  a  moment,  and  then  in 
the  moonlight  he  saw  her  flushed  face  against  the 
vines  and  caught  an  almost  startled  glance  from  her 
wonderful  eyes.  She  looked  straight  at  him. 

"No,  I'm  not,  and  I  never  have  been,"  she  said. 

"You  never  have  been?"  he  repeated.  "Oh, 
Helen — "  But  he  went  no  further.  For  a  moment 
he  hung  fire,  then  he  said: 

"  Don't  you  care  for  him,  Helen  ?  Are  you  and  I 
good  enough  friends  for  me  to  dare  to  ask  that?" 

387 


Mam'   Linda 

"I  thought  once  that  I  might  love  him,  in  time," 
she  faltered;  "but  when  I  came  home  and  found — 
and  found  how  deeply  I  had  misunderstood  and 
wronged  you,  I — I — "  She  broke  off,  her  face  buried 
in  the  leaves  of  the  vines. 

"Oh,  Helen!"  he  cried;  "do  you  realize  what  you 
are  saying  to  me?  You  know  my  whole  life  is 
wrapped  up  in  you.  Don't  raise  my  hopes  to-night 
unless  there  is  at  least  some  chance  of  my  winning. 
If  there  is  one  little  chance,  I'll  struggle  for  it  all  the 
rest  of  my  life." 

"Do  you  remember,"  she  asked,  looking  at  him, 
one  side  of  her  flushed  face  pressed  against  the 
vines — "  do  you  remember  the  night  you  told  me  in 
the  garden  about  that  awful  trouble  of  yours,  and  I 
promised  to  bear  it  with  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  wonderingly. 

"  Well,"  she  went  on,  "  I  went  straight  to  my  room 
after  I  left  you  and  wrote  to  Mr.  Sanders.  I  told 
him  exactly  how  I  felt.  I  simply  couldn't  keep  up 
a  correspondence  with  him  after  —  Carson,  I  knew 
that  night  when  I  left  you  there  in  your  gloom  and 
sorrow  that  I  loved  you  with  all  my  soul  and  body. 
Oh,  Carson,  when  I  heard  your  voice  in  your  glorious 
speech  just  now,  and  knew  that  you  have  loved  me 
all  this  time,  I  was  so  glad  that  I  cried.  I'm  the 
happiest,  proudest  girl  on  earth." 

And  as  they  stood  hand  in  hand,  too  joyful  for 
utterance,  the  glow  of  his  triumph  lit  the  sky  and  the 
din  and  clatter,  the  song  and  shouts  of  those  who 
loved  him  were  borne  to  him  on  the  breeze. 


THE    END 


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